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EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


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EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

A CRITICAL  STUDY 

BY 

ARTHUR  RANSOME 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

MCMX 


I 


PREFACE 

POE  is  a writer  whose  work  has  come  to  mean 
something  quite  different  from  himself.  He  has 
been  hidden  by  a small  group  of  his  writings.  The 
bulk  of  his  work  is  covered  away  under  a mantle 
of  the  iridescent  colouring  of  his  tales.  The  popu- 
lar conception  of  him  is  so  narrow  and  powerful 
that  it  has  made  of  him  a legendary  Faust,  and  it  is 
hard  for  us  to  say  Yet  art  thou  still  but  Faustus 
and  a man,”  and,  lifting  that  brilliant,  shining 
mantle,  to  unveil  the  real  astrologer.  There  is 
this  traditional  Poe  to  blind  our  eyes,  and  there 
is  also  the  hero  of  a new  morality  play,  where 
Art  is  Life,  Beauty  is  Virtue,  and  Public  Opinion 
is  the  Devil.  Baudelaire,  and  cheap  editions  of 
his  works,  which  take  account  only  of  his  tales, 
and,  among  them,  of  a single  group  alone, 
combine  to  obscure  him. 

It  would  not  be  surprising  if  Poe  had  been 
labelled  out  of  existence,  or  fallen  into  a general 
contempt.  This  is  far  from  being  the  case. 
Many  are  ready  to  discuss  him,  and  to  betray  in 
discussion  the  fact  that  they  have  not  troubled 

vii 


PREFACE 


to  examine  the  subject  of  their  argument.  He 
is  praised  and  blamed  for  such  details  as  the 
talkers  happen  to  have  noticed  in  passing. 
Different  men  see  in  him  momentary  reflections 
of  themselves,  and,  becoming  interested,  are 
disappointed  to  find  that  he  has  other  facets  on 
which  their  image  does  not  fall.  He  compels  a 
respect  to  which,  as  an  artist,  he  is  not  entitled, 
so  that  those  of  his  admirers  who  are  obstinately 
determined  to  base  their  admiration  on  his  art 
are  driven  to  make  excuses  for  him,  even  to 
themselves.  His  best  things  are  so  good  that 
his  readers  are  impelled  to  deny  the  badness  of 
his  worst,  instead  of  recognising  that  the  grounds 
of  their  admiration  are  false,  and  seeking  a firmer 
explanation.  That  such  an  explanation  is  to  be 
found  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  something  in 
the  character  of  his  mind  moves  those  who 
dislike  what  they  know  of  him  to  express  their 
dislike  with  extravagance,  and  others  to  praise 
no  less  extravagantly  the  tales  and  poems  on 
which  they  persuade  themselves  that  their  respect 
for  him  is  based. 

There  is  no  need,  then,  to  apologise  for  a book 
that  seeks  to  examine  all  Poe’s  activities  in  turn, 
and  so  to  separate  truth  from  tradition,  and  to 
discover  what  it  is  in  Poe  that  stimulates  such 
violence  of  praise  and  blame,  alike  insecurely 
founded.  There  is  no  need  to  apologise  even  for 

viii 


PREFACE 


failure  in  such  an  attempt.  An  admiration  or 
contempt  that  we  do  not  try  to  understand  is 
more  humiliating  to  the  mind  than  none  at 
all. 

I had  become  dissatisfied  with  my  own  respect 
for  Poe,  because  I could  not  point  to  tales  or 
poems  that  accounted  for  its  peculiar  character 
of  expectancy.  I admired  him,  but,  upon  analysis, 
found  that  my  admiration  was  always  for  some- 
thing round  the  corner,  or  over  the  hill.  In 
reading  and  re-reading  his  collected  works  1 
learnt  that,  perfect  as  his  best  things  are,  he  has 
another  title  to  immortality.  It  became  clear 
that  Poe’s  brain  was  more  stimulating  than  his 
art,  and  that  the  tales  and  poems  by  which  he  is 
known  were  but  the  by-products  of  an  uncon- 
cluded search.  Throughout  Poe’s  life  he  sought 
a philosophy  of  beauty  that  should  also  be  a 
philosophy  of  life.  He  did  not  find  it,  and  the 
unconcluded  nature  of  his  search  is  itself  sufficient 
to  explain  his  present  vitality.  Seekers  rather 
than  finders  stimulate  the  imagination. 

Poe’s  circumstances  were  not  those  most 
favourable  to  a philosopher  of  aesthetic.  He 
was  ill-educated  and  seldom  free  from  anxiety. 
He  lacked  at  once  a firm  foundation  and  an 
untroubled  atmosphere  in  which  to  build.  But 
he  practised  no  art  on  which  he  did  not  write, 
and  wrote  on  few  that  he  did  not  find  oppor- 

ix 


PREFACE 


tunity  to  practise.  He  had  a craftsman’s  know- 
ledge and  much  more,  and,  though  again  and 
again  a bias  in  his  character,  or  a prejudice  that 
he  had  acquired,  made  his  building  impossible, 
his  efforts  towards  a system,  embedded  as  they 
are  in  all  kinds  of  other  work,  foreshadow  in  an 
extraordinary  manner  the  ideas  that  are  most 
satisfying  to-day. 

In  this  book  I have  tried  to  trace  Poe’s 
thought  by  discussing  in  the  most  convenient 
order  his  various  activities  or  groups  of  ideas.  I 
have  tried  also  to  draw  a portrait  of  the  man  and 
to  strike  a balance  between  his  practice  and  his 
theory.  In  a Biographical  Background  I have 
tried  to  give  this  life  of  work  and  thought  a 
setting  in  the  world,  and,  in  a postscript,  to  follow 
the  gradual  naturalisation  of  Poe  as  a French 
writer. 

There  are  a few  sentences  in  the  book  taken 
from  a previous  short  essay,  published  in  my 
History  of  Story-telling,  and  in  other  forms. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  sufficient  reason  for 
obscuring  by  a paraphrase  what  was  as  clear  as  I 
could  make  it. 

Professor  Woodberry  very  generously  gave  me 
permission  to  quote  from  several  letters  that  are 
his  copyright,  and  also  to  use  his  excellent  book 
on  Poe  (issued  in  ‘‘  The  American  Men  of  Letters 
Series”  by  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  of  Boston, 

X 


PREFACE 


U.S.A.)  as  a guide  in  sketching  the  biographical 
chapter.  The  text  of  Poe’s  works  that  I have 
used  throughout  is  the  standard  edition  by  Pro- 
fessor Woodberry  and  the  late  E.  C.  Stedman, 
published  in  ten  volumes  by  Messrs.  Stone  and 
Kimball  of  Chicago. 

Arthur  Ransome 


XI 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE 

PAGE 

vii 

BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 

] 

A PRELIMINARY  NOTE  ON 

POE’S 

CRITICISM 

45 

SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

61 

TALES 

87 

POETRY 

115 

ANALYSIS 

149 

METAPHYSICS 

169 

FRAYED  ENDS 

193 

POSTSCRIPT:  THE  FRENCH 

VIEW 

OF  POE 

217 

BIOGRAPHICAL 

BACKGROUND 


A 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

BACKGROUND 

I 

IT  is  only  in  exceptional  cases  that  he  who 
would  examine  a man’s  work  can  refuse  all 
knowledge  of  its  author,  as  a hindrance  rather 
than  a help  to  his  understanding.  We  do 
not  need  much,  but  we  are  glad  of  much 
from  which  to  choose  our  knowledge.  We 
recognise  that  his  life,  the  physical  facts  of  his 
existence,  even  though  they  may  not  alFect  his 
work  directly,  are  yet  symptoms  of  the  conditions 
in  which  that  work  was  produced.  And  on  our 
knowledge  of  those  conditions  depends  at  least 
the  accuracy  of  our  re-creation  of  his  work,  our 
reproduction  of  his  picture  as  he  intended  it,  our 
reading  of  that  unwritten  book  whose  shadow  is 
given  us  in  print  and  paper. 

The  life  of  Poe  has  been  a battleground  for  his 
biographers,  and  it  is  perhaps  because  of  the  din 
and  smoke  of  that  field  that  what  he  wrote  has 
been  so  obtusely  comprehended.  In  the  excite- 

3 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


ment  of  personal  conflict  with  other  writers,  a 
conflict  mainly  concerned  with  the  facts  and 
legends  of  his  life,  and  their  judgment  in  terms  of 
contemporary  morality,  all  but  one  of  those  who 
have  written  Lives  ” of  Poe  have  taken  his  work 
for  granted,  his  uneven  poetry,  his  affinity  with 
Baudelaire,  his  weirdness — there  are  a few  other 
general  headings  under  which,  as  it  were  by 
mutual  consent,  Poe’s  work  is  labelled  and  left 
out  of  the  scrimmage,  like  the  hospital  in  a siege. 

For  this  book,  concerned  with  the  contents  of 
that  hospital,  we  need  only  enough  biographical 
background  to  throw  into  the  perspective  of  life 
such  an  examination  as  we  propose.  We  have 
no  wish  to  expose  the  peace  of  mind  that  is 
necessary  for  our  work  to  the  rude  shocks  and 
countershocks  of  that  smoking  field.  The  battle 
does  not  invite  us,  for  it  does  not  seem  to  us  to 
be  a battle  about  anything  that  matters.  I wish 
to  make  it  clear  that  in  this  chapter  I am  only 
preparing  the  ground  for  our  discussion.  I do 
not  ofler  a biography  of  Poe,  but  set  down,  as 
briefly  as  I can,  such  facts  as  seem  to  be  important, 
passing  over  much,  and  reserving  the  right  to  be 
disproportionately  detailed  in  treating  anything 
that  seems  likely  to  throw  any  light  upon  his 
work.  There  is  already  one  Life  ” of  Poe  that 
is  impartial,  and  written  by  a man  who  is  himself 
an  artist.  If  I could  be  sure  that  all  who  read 

4 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


this  book  had  read  Professor  Woodberry’s  I 
would  proceed  at  once  to  the  more  inviting 
subjects  of  examination. 

II 

The  opening  scene  of  Poe’s  life  might  have 
been  taken  from  the  story  of  a nineteenth - 
century  Capitaine  Fracasse  and  painted  by 
Hogarth.  The  curtain  lifts  on  the  children,  Poe 
and  his  brother  and  sister,  with  a father  and 
mother,  both  poor  players  left  in  illness  by  the 
travelling  company  to  which  they  were  attached, 
living  in  a garret.  The  Hogarthian  figure  of  the 
group  is  an  old  Welsh  nurse,  who,  to  quiet  the 
children,  took  them  in  turn  upon  her  lap  and  fed 
them  with  bread  soaked  in  gin.  The  Welsh 
woman  fantastically  dressed,  the  gin,  the  squalid 
garret,  the  dying  parents ; the  subject  would 
have  delighted  the  most  literary  of  painters.  It 
is  like  the  first  note  in  one  of  Poe’s  tales,  fore- 
telling the  inevitable  end. 

The  Captain  Fracasse  of  the  story,  whose 
adventure  turned  out  less  pleasantly  than  that  of 
the  adventurous  Marquis  in  Gautier’s  tale,  was 
David  Poe,  the  son  of  a Revolutionary  Quarter- 
master-General. He  married  Elizabeth  Arnold, 
a graceful  but  not  a superlative  actress.  She 
had  been  married  before,  and  when  David  Poe 

5 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


met  her,  she  was  known  as  Mrs.  Hopkins. 
Hopkins  was  a comedian,  and  his  widow  became 
Mrs.  Poe  within  a month  of  his  death.  They  had 
three  children,  William,  Edgar,  and  Rosalie. 
Edgar  Poe  was  born  on  January  19,  1809.  In 
January,  1811,  his  mother  was  too  ill  to  move 
on  from  Richmond  where  the  company  had  been 
playing.  The  destitution  of  the  family  became 
known,  and,  when  the  children  were  left  orphans, 
William,  the  eldest,  was  taken  into  the  house  of 
relatives,  a Mrs.  Mackenzie  adopted  the  little 
girl,  and  the  younger  boy  was  adopted  by  John 
Allan,  a tobacco-merchant.  The  girl  became  a 
listless  creature,  with  vacuous  eyes,  a love  of 
flowers  and  a dislike  of  ugly  faces.  The  little 
boy  became  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  the  writer  whose 
work  this  book  is  an  attempt  to  discuss. 

The  Allans  were  rich,  and  the  child,  who  was 
really  an  elaborate  kind  of  pet  for  Mrs.  Allan, 
was  wild  and  lovely  in  appearance,  precocious  in 
speech  and  manner.  He  was  indulged  by  the 
lady,  and  the  business  man  sometimes,  pleased 
with  his  antics,  followed  her  example,  and  some- 
times, displeased  with  his  wilfulness,  adopted  a 
severity  that  was  the  more  demoralising  because 
capricious.  There  are  tales  of  a little  boy  standing 
among  the  dessert,  and,  glass  in  hand,  proposing 
toasts.  There  are  tales,  too,  of  ungovernable 
tempests  of  rage. 


6 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


As  a child,  he  knew  the  extremes  of  poverty 
and  opulence.  The  garret  lodgings  and  the 
comfortable  household  of  the  Allans  struck  con- 
trasted chords  that,  in  different  keys,  echoed 
throughout  his  life.  He  had  the  pride  and  the 
sensitiveness  to  insult  of  the  poor  boy  who  has 
become  rich,  and,  when  a starving  man,  his 
wretchedness  was  intensified  by  the  fastidious 
delicacy  of  his  tastes. 


Ill 

When  he  was  six  years  old  the  Allans  took 
him  to  England,  and,  while  they  travelled,  left 
him  in  the  Manor  House  School  at  Stoke 
Newington.  His  description  of  this  period  of 
his  life  (for  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  “ William 
Wilson’s  ” schooldays  were  his  own)  is  comparable 
to  Coleridge’s  memories  of  Christ’s  Hospital. 
The  sediments  of  impression  that  their  schooldays 
left  the  two  men  are  characteristic  of  themselves. 
Coleridge  remembers  his  old  master  as  a teacher 
of  what  is  true  and  false  in  literature.  He  gives 
no  picture  of  the  man,  nor  of  the  grey  cloisters, 
nor  of  the  sounding  flagstones,  while  Poe,  less 
concerned  with  what  he  learnt  there,  is  unable 
to  forget  the  pictorial,  nervous  impression  left 
upon  him  by  his  school. 

Here  are  the  paragraphs  from  William  Wilson. 

7 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Very  little  in  them  seems  to  have  been  peculiarly 
coloured  for  the  purposes  of  the  tale : 

My  earliest  recollections  of  a school-life,  are 
connected  with  a large,  rambling,  Elizabethan 
house,  in  a misty-looking  village  of  England, 
where  were  a vast  number  of  gigantic  and 
gnarled  trees,  and  where  all  the  houses  were 
excessively  ancient.  In  truth,  it  was  a dream- 
like and  spirit-soothing  place,  that  venerable  old 
town.  At  this  moment,  in  fancy,  I feel  the 
refreshing  chilliness  of  its  deeply- shadowed 
avenues,  inhale  the  fragrance  of  its  thousand 
shrubberies,  and  thrill  anew  with  undefinable 
delight,  at  the  deep  hollow  note  of  the  church- 
bell,  breaking,  each  hour,  with  sullen  and  sudden 
roar,  upon  the  stillness  of  the  dusky  atmosphere 
in  which  the  fretted  Gothic  steeple  lay  imbedded 
and  asleep.  ■ 

It  gives  me,  perhaps,  as  much  of  pleasure  as 
I can  now  in  any  manner  experience,  to  dwell 
upon  minute  recollections  of  the  school  and  its 
concerns.  Steeped  in  misery  as  I am — misery, 
alas ! only  too  real — I shall  be  pardoned  for 
seeking  relief,  however  slight  and  temporary,  in 
the  weakness  of  a few  rambling  details.  These, 
moreover,  utterly  trivial,  and  even  ridiculous  in 
themselves,  assume,  to  my  fancy,  adventitious 
importance,  as  connected  with  a period  and  a 
locality  when  and  where  I recognise  the  first 
ambiguous  monitions  of  the  destiny  which  after- 
wards so  fully  overshadowed  me.  Let  me  then 
remember. 

“ The  house,  I have  said,  was  old  and  irregular. 

8 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


The  grounds  were  extensive,  and  a high  and 
solid  brick  wall,  topped  with  a bed  of  mortar 
and  broken  glass,  encompassed  the  whole.  This 
prison-like  rampart  formed  the  limit  of  our 
domain ; beyond  it  we  saw  but  thrice  a week — 
once  every  Saturday  afternoon,  when,  attended 
by  two  ushers,  we  were  permitted  to  take  brief 
walks  in  a body  through  some  of  the  neighbour- 
ing fields — and  twice  during  Sunday,  when  we 
were  paraded  in  the  same  formal  manner  to  the 
morning  and  evening  service  in  the  one  church 
of  the  village.  Of  this  church  the  principal  of 
our  school  was  pastor.  With  how  deep  a spirit 
of  wonder  and  perplexity  was  I wont  to  regard 
him  from  our  remote  pew  in  the  gallery,  as,  with 
step  solemn  and  slow,  he  ascended  the  pulpit  ! 
This  reverend  man,  with  countenance  so  de- 
murely benign,  with  robes  so  glossy  and  so 
clerically  flowing,  with  wig  so  minutely  pow- 
dered, so  rigid  and  so  vast, — could  this  be  he 
who,  of  late,  with  sour  visage,  and  in  snuffy 
habiliments,  administered,  ferule  in  hand,  the 
Draconian  laws  of  the  academy  ? Oh,  gigantic 
paradox,  too  utterly  monstrous  for  solution ! 

‘‘  At  an  angle  of  the  ponderous  wall  frowned 
a more  ponderous  gate.  It  was  riveted  and 
studded  with  iron  bolts,  and  surmounted  with 
jagged  iron  spikes.  What  impressions  of  deep 
awe  did  it  inspire  ! It  was  never  opened  save 
for  the  three  periodical  egressions  and  ingressions 
already  mentioned  ; then,  in  every  creak  of  its 
mighty  hinges,  we  found  a plenitude  of  mystery 
— a world  of  matter  for  solemn  remark,  or  for 
more  solemn  meditation. 

9 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


The  extensive  enclosure  was  irregular  in 
form,  having  many  capacious  recesses.  Of  these, 
three  or  four  of  the  largest  constituted  the  play- 
ground. It  was  level,  and  covered  with  fine 
hard  gravel.  I well  remember  it  had  no  trees, 
nor  benches,  nor  anything  similar  within  it.  Of 
course  it  was  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  In  front 
lay  a small  parterre,  planted  with  box  and  other 
shrubs ; but  through  this  sacred  division  we 
passed  only  upon  rare  occasions  indeed — such  as 
a first  advent  to  school  or  final  departure  thence, 
or  perhaps,  when  a parent  or  friend  having  called 
for  us,  we  joyfully  took  our  way  home  for  the 
Christmas  or  Midsummer  holidays. 

‘‘  But  the  house  ! — how  quaint  an  old  building 
was  this ! — to  me  how  veritably  a palace  of 
enchantment ! There  was  really  no  end  to  its 
windings — to  its  incomprehensible  subdivisions. 
It  was  difficult,  at  any  given  time,  to  say  with 
certainty  upon  which  of  its  two  stories  one 
happened  to  be.  From  each  room  to  every 
other  there  were  sure  to  be  found  three  or  four 
steps  either  in  ascent  or  descent.  Then  the 
lateral  branches  were  innumerable — inconceiv- 
able— and  so  returning  in  upon  themselves,  that 
our  most  exact  ideas  in  regard  to  the  whole 
mansion  were  not  very  far  different  from  those 
with  which  we  pondered  upon  infinity.  During 
the  five  years  of  my  residence  here,  I was  never 
able  to  ascertain  with  precision,  in  what  remote 
locality  lay  the  little  sleeping  apartment  assigned 
to  myself  and  some  eighteen  or  twenty  other 
scholars. 

“ The  school-room  was  the  largest  in  the 

10 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


house — I could  not  help  thinking,  in  the  world. 
It  was  very  long,  narrow,  and  dismally  low,  with 
pointed  Gothic  windows  and  a ceiling  of  oak. 
In  a remote  and  terror-inspiring  angle  was  a 
square  enclosure  of  eight  or  ten  feet,  comprising 
the  sanctum^  ‘ during  hours,’  of  our  principal, 
the  Reverend  Dr.  Bransby.  It  was  a solid 
structure,  with  massy  door,  sooner  than  open 
which  in  the  absence  of  the  ‘Dominie,’  we 
would  all  have  willingly  perished  by  the  peine 
forte  et  dure.  In  other  angles  were  two  other 
similar  boxes,  far  less  reverenced,  indeed,  but 
still  greatly  matters  of  awe.  One  of  these  was 
the  pulpit  of  the  ‘ classical  ’ usher,  one  of  the 
‘ English  and  mathematical.’  Interspersed  about 
the  room,  crossing  and  recrossing  in  endless  irre- 
gularity, were  innumerable  benches  and  desks, 
black,  ancient,  and  time-worn,  piled  desperately 
with  much-bethumbed  books,  and  so  beseamed 
with  initial  letters,  names  at  full  length,  gro- 
tesque figures,  and  other  multiplied  efforts  of  the 
knife,  as  to  have  entirely  lost  what  little  of 
original  form  might  have  been  their  portion  in 
days  long  departed.  A huge  bucket  with  water 
stood  at  one  extremity  of  the  room,  and  a clock 
of  stupendous  dimensions  at  the  other. 

“ Encompassed  by  the  massy  walls  of  this 
venerable  academy,  I passed,  yet  not  in  tedium 
or  disgust,  the  years  of  the  third  lustrum  of  my 
life.  The  teeming  brain  of  childhood  requires 
no  external  world  of  incident  to  occupy  or  amuse 
it ; and  the  apparently  dismal  monotony  of  a 
school  was  replete  with  more  intense  excitement 
than  my  riper  youth  has  derived  from  luxury,  or 

11 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


my  full  manhood  from  crime.  Yet  I must  be- 
lieve that  my  first  mental  development  had  in  it 
much  of  the  uncommon — even  much  of  the  outre. 
Upon  mankind  at  large  the  events  of  very  early 
existence  rarely  leave  in  mature  age  any  definite 
impression.  All  is  grey  shadow — a weak  and 
irregular  remembrance — an  indistinct  regathering 
of  feeble  pleasures  and  phantasmagoric  pains. 
With  me  this  is  not  so.  In  childhood  I must 
liave  felt  with  the  energy  of  a man  what  I now 
find  stamped  upon  memory  in  lines  as  vivid,  as 
deep,  and  as  durable  as  the  exergues  of  the 
Carthaginian  medals.” 

He  was  eleven  years  old  when  he  left. 


IV 

On  the  return  of  the  family  to  America,  Poe 
was  sent  to  a day-school  at  Richmond,  where  his 
adopted  parents  lived.  He  slept  and  passed  his 
evenings  at  the  tobacco-merchant’s,  and  spent  his 
days  among  the  usual  classical  authors,  and  in 
adding  to  his  knowledge  of  French,  as  well  as 
in  hardening  his  muscles  with  athletics.  He 
was  a good  fencer  and  a powerful  swimmer.  One 
hot  June  day  he  swam  over  seven  miles  ‘‘  against 
a tide  running  probably  from  two  to  three  miles 
an  hour.”*  Facts  like  these  help  to  give  bodily 
existence  and  credibility  even  to  such  a walker 

* Griswold. 

12 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


under  the  bat’s  wing  and  crescent  moon  as  Poe, 
just  as  our  understanding  of  Keats  is  fortified  by 
the  knowledge  that  upon  occasion  he  was  ready 
and  able  to  chastise  a butcher. 

But,  simultaneously  with  these  quite  fleshly 
schooldays,  were  passing  days  of  another  kind, 
and  nearer  to  the  shades  that  were  to  rule  the 
man.  He  fell  in  love,  and  in  such  a manner  as 
to  suggest  a darker  lining  to  the  silver  cloud  his 
schooldays  seem.  Only  when  a boy  is  very  lonely 
do  a few  kind  words  from  a woman  make  any 
deep  impression  on  his  mind.  One  such  boy, 
outwardly  happy  enough,  was  surprised  by  his 
schoolmaster’s  wife  laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  calling  him  old  man.”  So  novel  and  un- 
expected was  the  endearment,  that,  secretly,  in 
a corner  of  the  playground,  he  wept  throughout 
a summer  afternoon.  I think  a similar  feeling 
must  have  been  the  origin  of  Poe’s  first  love 
affair.  One  day,  when  Poe  was  at  the  house  of 
a schoolfellow,  he  met  the  boy’s  mother. 

“ This  lady,  on  entering  the  room,  took  his 
hand  and  spoke  some  gentle  and  gracious  words 
of  welcome,  which  so  penetrated  the  sensitive 
heart  of  the  orphan  boy  as  to  deprive  him  of  the 
power  of  speech,  and,  for  a time,  almost  of  con- 
sciousness itself.  He  returned  home  in  a dream, 
with  but  one  thought,  one  hope  in  life — to  hear 
again  the  sweet  and  gracious  words  that  had 

13 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


made  the  desolate  world  so  beautiful  to  him,  and 
filled  his  lonely  heart  with  the  oppression  of  a new 
joy.  This  lady  afterwards  became  the  confidant 
of  all  his  boyish  sorrows,  and  hers  was  the 
redeeming  influence  that  saved  and  guided  him 
in  the  earlier  days  of  his  turbulent  and  passionate 
youth.  After  the  visitation  of  strange  and 
peculiar  sorrows  she  died,  and  for  months  after 
her  decease  it  was  his  habit  to  visit  nightly  the 
cemetery  where  the  object  of  his  boyish  idolatry 
lay  entombed.” 

I tell  this  story  in  the  words  of  a slim  and 
ladylike  little  book,  one  of  those  that  took  part 
in  the  battle  over  Poe’s  character.*  It  was  pub- 
lished eleven  years  after  his  death,  and,  though 
the  writer  cannot  help  trying  to  lift  the  facts 
into  the  atmosphere  of  romance,  they  have  not 
been  denied  by  his  biographers.  The  same 
writer  tells  us  that  Poe  spoke  of  this  affection 
as  the  one,  idolatrous,  and  purely  ideal  love  ” 
of  his  boyhood.  In  the  Marginalia,  writing  of 
Byron,  he  quotes  from  Madame  Dudevant, 
“ ‘ Les  anges  ne  sont  plus  pures  que  le  coeur  d’un 
jeune  homme  qui  aime  en  verite  ’ {‘  The  angels 
are  not  more  pure  than  the  heart  of  a young 
man  who  loves  with  fervour’).  The  hyperbole 
is  scarcely  less  than  true.  It  would  be  truth 
itself,  were  it  averred  of  the  love  of  him  who  is 


* Edgar  Poe  and  his  Critics.  By  Sarah  Helen  Whitman. 

14 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


at  the  same  time  young  and  a poet.  The  boyish 
poet-love  is  indisputably  that  one  of  the  human 
sentiments  which  most  nearly  realises  our  dream 
of  the  chastened  voluptuousness  of  heaven.”  Poe 
was  a boy  of  fourteen  and  a poet.  It  is  possible 
for  such  to  love  from  the  heart  upwards,  and, 
even  while  living  an  athletic  youth,  to  look  out 
from  the  frame  of  this  love  with  the  same  aloof 
and  almost  pitying  eyes  as  those  of  a child  who 
is  happy  enough  to  exist  in  a painting  by  Sandro 
Botticelli.*  This  kindly  woman,  who  died  so 
soon  after  he  met  her,  left  her  image  to  the  boy 
as  the  rough  sketch  of  that  ideal  Lenore  who 
was  to  thread  her  ghostly  way  through  his 
phantasmal  poetry. 

Without  some  such  experience,  much  of  his 
work  would  have  been  other  than  it  was.  I 
think,  too,  that  it  is  perhaps  important  to  notice 
that  he  suffered  it  at  this  time.  He  left  school 
not  long  after  her  death,  and  the  time  between 
his  schooldays  and  his  entry  of  the  Virginia 
University,  a year  free  for  idleness  and  self- 
examination,  probably  did  much  in  inking-in  the 
pencilled  outlines  of  his  character.  He  must 

* When  I noted  this,  I was  thinking  of  a picture,  not  by 
Botticelli,  but  by  one  of  Botticelli’s  school,  that  hangs,  I 
think,  close  by  the  master’s  picture  in  the  long  Italian  gallery 
of  the  Louvre.  I have  never  met  the  eyes  of  the  child  who 
looks  from  that  picture  without  feeling  that  here  was  one  who 
leant  from  heaven  and  saw  that  men  could  never  understand. 

15 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


have  been  thinking  of  this  time,  spent  in  the 
rather  magnificent  house  of  the  tobacco-merchant, 
when,  wrapped  in  Byron’s  cloak,  with  Moore  s 
translation  in  his  pocket,  he  wrote  in  the  1831 
edition  of  Romance  these  lines,  that  were  to  be 
erased  later : 

For,  being  an  idle  boy  lang  syne. 

Who  read  Anacreon  and  drank  wine, 

I early  found  Anacreon  rhymes 
W ere  almost  passionate  sometimes — 

And  by  strange  alchemy  of  brain 
His  pleasures  always  turn’d  to  pain — 

His  naivete  to  wild  desire — 

His  wit  to  love — his  wine  to  fire — 

And  so,  being  young  and  dipt  in  folly 
I fell  in  love  with  melancholy. 

And  used  to  throw  my  earth!  { rest 
And  quiet  all  away  in  jest — 

I could  not  love  except  where  Death 
Was  mingling  his  with  Beauty’s  breath — 
Or  Hymen,  Time,  and  Destiny 
Were  stalking  between  her  and  me.” 

Byron’s  cloak  was  already  on  his  shoulders 
when,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  began  his 
session  at  the  University.  He  earnestly  but 
discreetly  lived  up  to  it,  with  no  very  serious 
result,  as  he  escaped  censure  by  the  authorities, 
and  took  honours  in  Latin  and  French.  He 
had,  however,  gambled  prodigiously,  and  expected 
Mr.  Allan  to  satisfy  a debt  of  honour  that 

16 


/ 

BACKGROUND 

amounted  to  two  thousand  five  hundred  dollars. 
Mr.  Allan  was  a business  man.  The  cloak  of 
Byron  meant  nothing  to  him,  nor  did  the  gains 
in  Latin  and  French  compensate  for  these  more 
obvious  losses.  He  removed  Poe  from  the 
University,  and  set  him  to  add  figures  in  his 
office. 


V 

' Honours  in  Latin  and  French,  a grand  manner  in 
gambling,  a boy’s  tragical  love  affair,  and  the  cloak 
of  Byron,  do  not  find  in  a tall  stool  in  a tobacco- 
merchant’s  office  the  setting  they  require.  Poe 
knew  what  the  setting  should  have  been,  when 
he  permitted,  or  even  helped  into  existence  the 
fictions  of  his  expedition  in  aid  of  Grecian 
liberty,  the  journey  that  did  not  end  in  Misso- 
longhi  but  in  St.  Petersburg.*  That  is  what 

* It  is  worth  while  to  show  that  Poe  was  not  alone  in  thus 
trying  to  lessen  the  discrepancy  between  his  life  and  what  he 
felt  to  be  fitting  to  his  character,  I take  an  example  from 
Hogg’s  Life  of  Shelley.  Shelley  wrote  to  Godwin  : 

‘^^At  the  period  to  which  1 allude,  I was  at  Eton.  No 
sooner  had  I formed  the  principles  [Godwin’s  own]  which  I 
now  profess,  than  I was  anxious  to  disseminate  their  benefits. 
This  was  done  without  the  slightest  caution.  I was  twice 
expelled,  but  recalled  by  the  interference  of  my  father.’ 

All  this  is  purely  imaginary  : he  never  published  anything 
controversial  at  Eton ; he  was  never  expelled ; not  twice,  not 
once.  His  poetic  temperament  was  overpowered  by  the 
grandeur  and  awfulness  of  the  occasion,  when  he  took  up  his 

17  B 


EDGAR  AeLaN  rOl 

the  setting  should  have  been.  But  it  was  not. 
Professor  W oodberry  prints  documents  that  leave 
little  possible  doubt  as  to  what  actually  occurred. 
Poe  left  Mr.  Allan,  went  to  Boston,  and  persuaded 
another  boy,  who  was  setting  up  as  a printer,  to 
publish  a book  of  verse.  Then,  since  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  else  to  do,  and  he  had  no  money, 
he  enlisted  in  the  American  army  under  the 
name  of  Edgar  A.  Perry. 

pen  to  address  the  author  of  Caleb  Williams^  so  that  the 
auspicious  Apollo,  to  relieve  and  support  his  favourite  son, 
shed  over  his  head  a benign  vision.  He  saw  himself  at  his 
Dame’s  with  Political  Justice,  which  he  had  lately  borrow^ed 
from  Dr.  Lind,  open  before  him.  He  had  read  a few  pages 
and  had  formed  his  principles  in  a moment ; he  was  thrown 
into  a rapture  by  the  truisms,  mares’ -nests,  and  paradoxes, 
which  he  had  met  with. 

He  sees  himself  in  the  printing-loft  of  ^ J.  Pote,  bibliopola 
et  typographus,’  amongst  Eton  grammars  and  Eton  school- 
books, republishing  with  the  rapidity  of  a dream  and  ^ with- 
out the  slightest  caution,’  Godwin’s  heavy  and  unsaleable 
volumes.  He  sees  himself  before  the  Dons  convened  and 
expelled ; and  lastly,  he  beholds  the  Honourable  Member  for 
Shoreham  weeping  at  his  knees  like  Priam  at  the  feet  of 
Achilles,  and  imploring  the  less  inexorable  Dr.  Keate. 

‘^All  this  being  poetically  true,  he  firmly  and  loyally  believes, 
and  communicates,  as  being  true  in  act,  fact,  and  deed,  to  his 
venerable  correspondent.  One  more  instance,  and  that  is 
still  more  extraordinary ; he  says  : 

^ My  father  wished  to  induce  me,  by  poverty,  to  accept  of 
some  commission  in  a distant  regiment,  in  the  interim  of  my 
absence  to  prosecute  the  pamphlet,  that  a process  of  outlawry 
might  make  the  estate  on  his  death  devolve  to  my  younger 
brother.’ 

“No  offer  of  a commission  in  the  army  was  ever  made  to 
Bysshe ; it  is  only  in  a dream,  that  the  prosecution,  outlawry, 
and  devolution  of  the  estate  could  find  a place.” 

18 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


The  poems  received  no  more  attention  than  is 
usually  given  to  unadvertised  verse,  even  of  better 
quality.  Lack  of  money  is  enough  to  account 
for  many  enlistments.  But  what  is  extraordinary 
is  the  fact  that  Byron’s  cloak,  turned  to  a military 
great-coat,  brought  with  it  such  an  attention  to 
duty  and  discipline  as  won  Poe,  in  less  than  two 
years,  the  responsibilities  of  a Sergeant-Major. 
Perhaps  Poe’s  aloofness  from  the  interests  of  his 
comrades  saved  him  from  the  carousals,  however 
mild,  that  would  have  overturned  his  resolves  and 
certainly  cost  him  his  promotion.  Drinking  alone 
is  dull  work,  and  there  is  no  evidence  that  Poe 
enjoyed  or  practised  it.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  he  recognised  his  danger,  in  the  mind  of  any 
one  who  reads  the  three  letters  of  recommendation 
given  him  by  his  officers.  The  first,  from  his 
lieutenant,  says,  ‘‘  His  habits  are  good  and  intirely 
free  from  drinking  the  second,  from  his  adjutant, 
says  that  he  has  been  exemplary  in  his  deport- 
ment ” ; the  third,  from  his  commander,  says, 
awkwardly,  ‘‘he  appears  to  be  free  from  bad 
habits,  in  fact  the  testimony  of  Lt.  Howard, 
and  Adjt.  Griswold  is  full  to  that  point.”  It  is 
not  extravagant  to  suppose  that  he  had  asked  for 
an  explicit  statement  on  a question  that  may  have 
been  raised  by  Mr.  Allan  at  the  close  of  his  short 
University  career.  - ■ 

r these  letters  when  he  had  made 
19 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


peace  with  Mr.  Allan,  who  secured  for  him  a 
discharge  by  substitute,  so  that  he  might  qualify 
for  officer’s  rank  by  passing  through  the  military 
school  at  West  Point.  Mr.  Allan  gave  him  a 
rather  unpleasant  letter,  hostile  and  cold,  to  the 
Secretary  for  War,  and  Poe  went  with  it  to 
Washington. 

Some  time  passed  before  he  was  admitted  as  a 
cadet,  and  he  showed  that  his  two  years  in  the 
ranks  had  not  altered  his  character.  He  had 
added  other  poems  to  those  in  his  first  volume, 
and  presently  published  another  book,  a revised 
edition  of  the  first,  with  the  new  work.  This 
book  w^as  issued  at  Baltimore  in  1829,  and  much 
of  its  matter  stands  in  the  final  edition  of  his 
writings. 

On  July  1,  1830,  he  entered  West  Point.  He 
was  again  in  the  society  of  students,  but  the 
difference  between  himself  and  them  was  wider 
even  than  that  between  the  young  poet-lover  and 
his  fellows  at  the  Virginia  University.  There,  at 
least,  they  were  of  his  own  age,  although  they 
had  not  mourned  a Lenore  among  the  tomb- 
stones. Here,  with  a man’s  experience  behind 
him,  he  found  himself  among  boys.  He  had 
known  something  of  the  sober  battles  of  the 
world,  whereas  they  were  gaily  learning  to  direct 
the  gaudy  confljcts  of  the  tented  field.  They  said 
“he-had'pro'^red  appointmgniJirJ^ 

20 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


son,  and,  the  boy  having  died,  the  father  had 
substituted  himself  in  his  place.”  * The  loneliness 
that  lasted  through  his  life  was  already  deepening 
about  him,  but  did  not  prevent  him  from  sharing 
in  the  brandy-drinking  that  was  the  habit  of  the 
cadets  who  shared  his  room.  He  met  them  on 
the  lowest  of  common  grounds.  Elsewhere,  he 
lived  his  own  life,  reading,  and  writing  poetry 
that  began  to  wear  the  iridescent  colours  of  his 
genius,  doing  well  in  the  French  and  mathematical 
classes,  but  occasionally  contemptuously  neglect- 
ful of  the  military  routine.  He  found  it  easier 
to  please  the  army  mind  as  a penniless  common 
soldier  than  as  a cadet  with  a tobacco-merchant 
behind  him.  Six  months  were  sufficient  to  show 
him  that  he  was  not  destined^to  his  grandfather’s 
career,  and,  to  make  sure  of  escaping  from  West 
Point,  he  compelled  his  own  dismissal  by  a con- 
sistent series  of  offences  against  the  discipline  of 
the  place.  He  was  dismissed  by  court-martial, 
and,  on  March  7, 1831,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two, 
he  found  himself  in  the  world  again,  with  twelve 
cents  of  his  own  money,  and  possibly  a few 
subscriptions  for  the  new  volume  of  poetry  which 
he  immediately  published  in  New  York.  On 
leaving  his  guardian,  on  leaving  the  ranks,  on 
leaving  West  Point,  he  had  flung  out  his  flag  in 
publishing  a book. 

* Woodberry.  Quoted  from  Harper  s Magazine,  1867. 

21 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


VI 

The  next  six  years  hold  the  motif  of  the 
troubled  composition  of  his  life.  In  them  were 
developed  the  qualities  that  should  have  brought 
him  happiness,  and  those  that  turned  his  happi- 
ness to  misery,  those  that  should  have  made  him 
worldlily  successful,  and  those  that  invariably 
turned  his  success  to  failure.  He  was  twenty-two 
when  he  left  W est  Point,  leaving  with  it  a career 
'v  N ^ and  any  hopes  he  may  have  had  of  pecuniary  help 

from  Mr.  Allan.  For  a moment  he  seems  to  have 
found  it  hard  to  realise  that  money  is  a thing 
that  must  be  earned.  He  published  his  book  of 
poetry,  and  went  to  Baltimore  because  he  had 
relations  there.  They  did  not  put  him  in  the 
way  of  getting  any  work.  He  tried  for  a post 
as  a clerk,  and  for  another  as  a schoolmaster. 
He  must  have  had  a full  experience  of  the  poverty 
of  those  who  can  only  earn  money  by  their  pens, 
and  have  not  yet  proved  their  power  of  doing  as 
much.  In  1833  he  was  without  a decent  suit  of 
clothes,  and  almost  without  food.  His  only  pro- 
perty seems  to  have  been  his  poems  and  his  first 
stories,  none  of  which  he  had  been  able  to  pub- 
lish. A local  paper  offered  a hundred  dollars  as 
the  prize  for  a competition  in  story- writing,  and 
fifty  dollars  for  a similar  competition  in  poetry. 

22 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


Poe,  empty-bellied  and  almost  in  rags,  sent  in 
The  Coliseum  and  a careful  manuscript  copy  of 
his  tales  in  a small  book.  He  won  both  prizes, 
was  given  the  larger,  and  complimented  by  the 
critics  who  had  decided  the  awards.  The  prize 
brought  him  more  than  the  hundred  dollars  in 
the  friendship  of  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  saw  to  it 
that  his  tales  were  published  in  the  paper  that 
had  held  the  competition,  gave  him  a horse  to 
ride  for  exercise,  fed  him  and  clothed  him,  and, 
in  fact,  lifted  him  from  the  risk  of  imminent 
disaster  to  a position  where  he  could  work  with 
some  tranquillity.  Poe  also  became  intimate  with 
the  editor  of  the  paper,  an  editor  who,  unfor- 
tunately, was  soon  to  taste  poverty  himself. 

About  this  time  he  became  the  third  in  a 
small  family,  thenceforward  made  up  of  his  aunt, 
Mrs.  Clemm,  her  daughter  Virginia,  then  eleven, 
and  himself.  Mrs.  Clemm,  harder  in  appearance 
than  in  heart,  treated  him  as  her  own  son,  better, 
indeed,  than  mothers  treat  their  sons,  starving 
herself  for  his  sake,  and,  to  the  end  of  her  life, 
working  unstintedly  for  his  work  and  for  himself. 
Poe  repaid  her  by  an  absolute  identification  of 
her  interests  with  his  own,  and  by  an  affection 
that,  next  to  his  feeling  for  Virginia,  was  the 
least  angular  thing  in  his  life. 

Mr.  Allan  died  next  year,  and  Poe’s  name  was 
not  in  his  will.  His  feelings  towards  his  adopted 

23 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


son  had  already  been  made  sufficiently  clear. 
The  news  in  no  way  interrupted  Poe’s  life.  He 
was  working  steadily  at  poetry  and  prose,  and 
making  money  to  boil  the  common  pot  by  scantily 
paid  journalism.  Already  his  brain  was  full  of 
schemes  for  a paper  of  his  own,  a dream  like 
Balzac’s  printing  house,  that  was  to  make  him 
rich  and  help  him  in  getting  the  ear  of  America 
for  his  work.  It  is  difficult  for  us,  with  our 
knowledge  of  what  he  was  to  become,  to  con- 
struct a true  picture  of  Poe  as  he  seemed  then. 
But  a letter  from  his  friend  Mr.  Kennedy  to  the 
editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger^  to 
which  Poe  had  just  sent  his  first  contribution, 
shows  us  a young  man  in  whom  it  was  easy  to 
be  interested,  the  sort  of  young  man  whom  his 
elders  regard  with  some  fondness,  even  while 
trying  to  make  him  like  themselves.  The  letter 
is  printed  in  Griswold’s  essay. 

Baltimore,  April  13,  1835. 

Dear  Sir, 

“ Poe  did  right  in  referring  to  me.  He  is 
very  clever  with  his  pen — classical  and  scholar- 
like. He  wants  experience  and  direction,  but  I 
have  no  doubt  he  can  be  made  very  useful  to 
you.  And,  poor  fellow  I he  is  very  poor.  I told 
him  to  write  something  for  every  number  of  your 
magazine,  and  that  you  might  find  it  to  your 
advantage  to  give  him  some  permanent  employ. 

24 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


He  has  a volume  of  very  bizarre  tales  in  the 

hands  of , in  Philadelphia,  who  for  a year 

past  has  been  promising  to  publish  them.  This 
young  fellow  is  highly  imaginative,  and  a little 
given  to  the  terrific.  He  is  at  work  upon  a 
tragedy,  but  I have  turned  him  to  drudging 
upon  whatever  may  make  money,  and  I have  no 
doubt  you  and  he  will  find  your  account  in  each 
other.” 


Poe,  though  ^‘classical  and  scholar-like,”  and 
a little  given  to  the  terrific,”  very  soon  made  it 
clear  that  if  he  had  had  a magazine  of  his  own 
he  would  have  known  what  to  do  with  it.  He 
first  contributed  to  the  Southern  Literary  Mes- 
senger in  1835.  At  midsummer  he  left  Baltimore 
for  Richmond,  to  become  more  closely  connected 
with  it.  In  January  of  the  next  year  he  was 
practically  managing  it,  and  filling  its  columns 
with  his  work.  By  January  1837  he  had  turned 
a little  paper,  that  was  rather  tottery  upon  its 
legs,  into  a firmly  established  and  important 
magazine.  His  critical  articles,  of  a kind  new 
in  America,  iconoclastic,  vigorous,  and  speedily 
feared,  had  brought  it  to  the  level  of  the  older 
papers  of  New  York.  He  then  left  it  to  its 
success,  and  turned  to  face  poverty  himself. 

The  history  of  his  connection  with  the  Mes- 
senger  runs  parallel  to  events  in  his  private  life, 
equally  important  to  us  in  their  elucidation  of 

25 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


his  character.  The  child  Virginia  had  become 
necessary  to  him,  and  his  cousin’s  proposal  to 
take  care  of  her  until  she  should  be  old  enough 
to  decide  if  she  and  Poe  were  suited  to  each 
other,  first  threw  him  into  extreme  anguish,  and 
then,  rousing  him  to  action,  hurried  on  a wedding. 
He  took  out  a licence  in  September  1835.  It  is 
suggested  that  there  was  a private  marriage. 
Whether  that  is  so  or  not,  Virginia  did  not  leave 
Mrs.  Clemm,  and  mother  and  daughter  followed 
Poe  to  Richmond.  Here  he  tried  to  establish 
Mrs.  Clemm  as  the  landlady  of  a boarding  house, 
in  which  he  and  her  daughter  were  to  live  with 
other  paying  guests.  In  May  1836  Poe  and 
Virginia  were  publicly  married.  She  was  not 
fourteen. 

It  is  probable  that  early  in  these  six  years  the 
little  cloud,  at  first  no  bigger  than  a man’s  hand, 
that  was  at  last  to  cover  the  sky  and  close  like  a 
pall  over  his  grave,  had  shown  on  Poe’s  horizon. 
His  biographers,  hostile  or  apologetic,  assuming, 
like  Moslems,  that  drink  is  the  unforgivable  sin, 
spend  themselves  in  vain  battle,  on  the  one  hand, 
to  show  that  he  was  a drunkard,  on  the  other,  to 
prove  that  he  touched  little  but  water.  There 
is,  certainly,  no  evidence  to  show  that,  before 
leaving  West  Point,  Poe  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  drinking  more  than  other  young  men.  But, 
when  we  remember  the  circumstances  of  his 

26 


BIOGEAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


childhood,  the  Hogarth  picture  of  the  old  woman 
feeding  the  child  with  gin,  and  his  father’s  un- 
doubted failing,  we  find  it  easy  to  explain  much 
of  his  story  by  supposing  that,  in  those  early 
months  of  starvation,  l^oe,  like  most  men  in- 
sufficiently fed,  took  more  readily  to  drink  than 
to  food,  and  found  it  less  difficult  to  obtain. 
Drink  is  always  offered  before  food  to  a starving 
man  by  his  friends.  Poe  may  have  learnt  in  a 
tavern  in  Baltimore,  like  many  a young  journalist 
in  a bar  in  Fleet  Street,  that  a glass  of  whisky  is 
almost  the  only  thing  that  is  given  and  taken 
without  a hint  of  the  patronage  distasteful  alike 
to  giver  and  receiver.  He  certainly  learnt  to 
fear  it.  Griswold  prints  a letter  from  White, 
the  owner  of  the  Messenger^  in  which  occur  these 
sentences : 

That  you  are  sincere  in  all  your  promises  I 
firmly  believe.  But  when  you  once  again  tread 
these  streets,  I have  my  fears  that  your  resolution 
will  fail  and  that  you  will  again  drink  until  your 
senses  are  lost.  ...  If  you  would  make  your- 
self contented  with  quarters  in  my  house,  or  with 
any  other  private  family  where  liquor  is  not  used, 
I should  think  there  was  some  hope  for  you. 
But  if  you  go  to  a tavern  or  to  any  other  place 
where  it  is  used  at  table,  you  are  not  safe.” 

Is  it  too  much  to  suppose  that  something 
more  than  his  knowledge  of  Virginia’s  age  made 

27 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Neilson  Poe  anxious  to  remove  her  from  his 
cousin’s  side  ? Is  it  too  much  to  find  in  the 
separation  from  the  Messenger  a proof  that 
renewed  lapses  contributed  to  Poe’s  irregularity 
at  the  office.  Nothing  else  explains  at  once  the 
dismissal  of  so  successful  an  editor  and  the 
friendly  attitude  of  White,  who  was  still  ready 
to  publish  his  work. 

In  the  six  years  since  he  left  West  Point  Poe 
had  fought  his  way  up  from  poverty,  and  shown 
that,  with  Balzac’s  business  powers  and  acumen, 
he  had  also,  for  different  reasons,  Balzac’s  ill  luck 
in  letting  other  people  profit  by  them.  He  had 
found  himself,  and,  with  himself,  the  secret  of 
his  eventual  disaster. 


VII 

Poe’s  life  henceforth  is  a story  of  shiftings 
from  the  pillar  to  the  post  of  journalism.  In 
1838  he  published  The  Narrative  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym,  that  had  begun  as  a serial  contribu- 
tion to  the  31essenger.  In  1839  he  put  his  name 
to  a piece  of  hackwork,  not  much  more  predatory 
than  the  exercises  of  other  free  lances,  that  was 
published  under  the  name  of  The  Conchologisf s 
First  Book  ; or,  A System  of  Testaceous  Mala- 
cology. He  contributed  to  many  American 
papers,  and  became  particularly  connected  with 

28 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


Burtons  Gentlemans  Magazine  and  American 
Monthly  Review,  where  he  reprinted  much  that 
had  already  appeared,  and  published  The  Journal 
of  Julius  Rodman  and  a quantity  of  criticism. 
But,  in  June  1840,  he  had  a vehement  quarrel 
with  Burton.  Burton  was  an  actor  and  the 
proprietor  of  the  paper.  Poe  considered  him  a 
scoundrel  on  account  of  a premium  scheme,  and 
also,  perhaps  chiefly,  because  he  wished  to  mollify 
the  tone  of  Poe’s  attacks  on  some  of  the  authors 
he  criticised.  Poe  seems  to  have  written  a bitter 
letter,  meeting  Burton  on  his  own  ground,  and 
suggesting  that  slashing  reviews  brought  sub- 
scribers to  the  paper.  The  editor  replied  in  a 
letter  quoted  by  Griswold  : 

I am  sorry  you  have  thought  it  necessary  to 
send  me  such  a letter.  Your  troubles  have  given 
a morbid  tone  to  your  feelings  which  it  is  your 
duty  to  discourage.  I myself  have  been  as 
severely  handled  by  the  world  as  you  could 
possibly  have  been,  but  my  sufferings  have  not 
tinged  my  mind  with  melancholy,  nor  jaundiced 
my  views  of  society.  You  must  rouse  your 
energies,  and  if  care  assail  you,  conquer  it.  I 
will  gladly  overlook  the  past.  I hope  you  will 
as  easily  fulfil  your  pledges  for  the  future.  We 
shall  agree  very  well,  though  I cannot  permit 
the  magazine  to  be  made  a vehicle  for  that  sort 
of  severity  which  you  think  is  ‘so  successful 
with  the  mob.’  I am  truly  much  less  anxious 

29 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


about  making  a monthly  ' sensation  ’ than  I am 
upon  the  point  of  fairness.  You  must,  my  dear 
sir,  get  rid  of  your  avowed  ill  feelings  towards 
your  brother  authors.  You  see  I speak  plainly: 
I cannot  do  otherwise  upon  such  a subject. 
You  say  the  people  love  havoc.  I think  they 
love  justice.  1 think  you  yourself  would  not 
have  written  the  article  on  Dawes  in  a more 
healthy  state  of  mind.  I am  not  trammelled  by 
any  vulgar  considerations  of  expediency ; I 
would  rather  lose  money  than,  by  such  undue 
severity,  wound  the  feelings  of  a kind-hearted 
and  honourable  man ; and  I am  satisfied  that 
Dawes  has  something  of  the  true  fire  in  him.  I 
regretted  your  word-catching  spirit.  But  1 
wander  from  my  design.  I accept  your  proposi- 
tion to  recommence  your  interrupted  avocations 
upon  the  Maga,  Let  us  meet  as  if  we  had  not 
exchanged  letters.  Use  more  exercise,  write 
when  feelings  prompt,  and  be  assured  of  my 
friendship.  You  will  soon  regain  a healthy 
activity  of  mind  and  laugh  at  your  past 
vagaries.” 

I am  almost^  inclined  to  suspect  that  Mr. 
Burton  wrote  his  letter  with  a view  to  publica- 
tion, or,  at  least,  to  showing  it  round  among 
his  friends.  Its  sentiments  are  so  uniformly 
respectable.  Few  things  are  more  galling  to 
proud  and  sensitive  minds  than  to  receive  advice 
of  this  confident  nature  from  their  intellectual 
inferiors.  “ I am  satisfied  that  Dawes  has  some- 

30 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 

thing  of  the  true  fire  in  him.”  Pronouncements 
like  that  stir  the  mildest  heart  when  they  come 
from  the  mouth.s  of  publishers  and  men  of 
business  with  mo/re  pretension  than  right  to 
literary  judgment. ) Poe  must  indeed  have  been 
in  straits  to  conserit  to  work  with  such  a man. 

Burton  also  accused  Poe  of  drunkenness,  a 
charge  that  was  i/ndignantly  denied.  Presently 
Burton  was  trying  to  sell  his  magazine,  and  Poe 
was  trying  to  i^tart  another  that  should  be  his 
own,  and  leave  I him  free  from  interference.  He 
failed  in  securimg  a capitalist,  and  became  editor 
of  Graham's  ^Magazine^  to  which  he  contributed 
his  articl^j^  on  cryptography  and  handwriting, 
and,  amcjngst  other  stories.  The  Murders  in  the 
Jdue^Morgue, 

Meanwhile,  he  was  living  a peaceful  idyll  with 
#^irginia  and  the  gigantic,  matronly  Mrs.  Clemm, 
"who  was  body-servant  and  mother  to  them  both. 
But  Virginia  broke  a blood-vessel  in  singing,  and 
spent  the  rest  of  her  life  in  dying.  This  anxiety 
possibly  increased  Poe’s  irregularities,  which  had, 
however,  other  causes.  He  had  lived  beyond  his 
means. 

There  are  few  men  of  that  peculiar  sensibility 
which  is  at  the  root  of  genius,  who,  in  early 
youth,  have  not  expended  much  of  their  mental 
energy  in  living  too  fast ; and,  in  later  years, 
comes  the  unconquerable  desire  to  goad  the 

31 


“ Dear  Griswold, — Can  you  send  me  five 
dollars  ? 1 am  sick  and  Virginia  almost  gone. 

Come  and  see  me.  Peterson  says  you  suspect 
me  of  a curious  anonymous  letter.  I did  not 
write  it,  but  bring  it  with  you  when  you  make 
the  visit  you  promised  to  Mrs.  Clemm.  I will 
try  to  fix  that  matter  soon.  Could  you  do  any- 
thing with  my  note  ? Yours  truly, 

- E.  A.  P." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


Virginia  did  not  die  until  1847.  But  year  by 
year  she  lingered  as  if  in  the  moment  of  depar- 
ture. Few  things  are  more  trying  to  the  nerves 
than  a protracted  farewell ; and,  when  the  parting 

is  for  ever ! It  is  not  surprising  that  Poe’s 

tendency  found  slight  resistance  to  its  growth 
during  these  years. 

Griswold  describes  his  home  in  Philadelphia : 

When  once  he  sent  for  me  to  visit  him, 
during  a period  of  illness  caused  by  protracted 
and  anxious  watching  at  the  side  of  his  sick  wife, 
I was  impressed  by  the  singular  neatness  and  the 
air  of  refinement  in  his  home.  It  was  in  a small 
house,  in  one  of  the  pleasant  and  silent  neigh- 
bourhoods far  from  the  centre  of  the  town,  and 
though  slightly  and  cheaply  furnished,  every- 
thing in  it  was  so  tasteful  and  fitly  disposed  that 
it  seemed  altogether  suitable  for  a man  of  genius. 
For  this  and  for  most  of  the  comforts  he  enjoyed, 
in  his  brightest  as  in  his  darkest  years,  he  was 
chiefly  indebted  to  his  mother-in-law,  who  loved 
him  with  more  than  maternal  devotion  and 
constancy.” 

During  the  summer  of  1843,  he  began  lectur- 
ing with  a fierce  attack  on  Griswold’s  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  America,  He  is  not  likely  to  have 
lectured  without  thinking  of  the  art  of  oratory, 
and  discovering  laws  to  which  he  did  his  best  to 
adhere.  But  we  can  guess  at  the  character  of 
his  delivery  from  the  various  notes  that  have 

33  c 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


been  left  describing  his  manner  of  conversation. 
Mrs.  Osgood,  for  example,  speaks  of  his  ‘‘pure 
and  almost  celestial  eloquence.”  Griswold  de- 
scribed it  as  supra-mortal.  “ His  voice  was 
modulated  with  astonishing  skill,  and  his  large 
and  variably  expressive  eyes  looked  repose  or 
shot  fiery  tumult  into  those  who  listened,  while 
his  own  face  glowed,  or  was  changeless  in  pallor, 
as  his  imagination  quickened  his  blood  or  drew 
it  back  frozen  to  his  heart.”  Mrs.  Whitman 
noticed  that  “the  strange  fascination — the  un- 
matched charm  of  his  conversation — consisted  in 
its  genuineness.”  We  are  to  imagine  a less 
rotund  Coleridge,  who  meant  what  he  said,  and 
seemed,  as  he  said  it,  to  mean  it  perhaps  more 
vehemently  than  he  did.  We  are  to  imagine 
this  man  leaving  his  extreme  poverty  and  his 
slowly  dying  wife,  and  lecturing  on  poetry  to 
well-fed  and  comfortable  audiences. 


VIII 

Poe  returned  to  Grahams  Magazine  as  a con- 
tributor, and  seems  to  have  recovered  a semi- 
official position  on  the  paper.  But  he  was  soon 
again  projecting  a paper  of  his  own,  that  was  to 
be  a kind  of  co-operative  Edinburgh  Reviete, 
with  an  editor  to  be  chosen  by  election. 

34 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


Throughout  his  life  as  a journalist  runs  this 
continuous  thread  of  hope  that  he  would  one 
day  control  a paper,  and  build  up  such  a power- 
ful weapon  of  criticism  as  Christopher  North  had 
fashioned  in  Blackwood's, 

In  1844,  when  Grahams  deserted  him,  he 
went,  almost  penniless,  to  New  York.  He  took 
Virginia  with  him,  and  Mrs.  Clemm  followed. 
For  some  time  they  lived  on  his  earnings  as  a 
free  lance,  and  starved,  because  the  rates  of  pay 
were  small,  and  he  could  not  publish  enough 
work  to  overcome  this  handicap  in  his  struggle 
for  bread  and  butter.  Then,  for  a time,  he  was 
a minor  assistant  on  another  man’s  paper,  where 
he  bore  his  humiliating  position  with  a good 
grace,  and  won  the  rather  patronising  praise  of 
his  editor.  In  January,  1845,  he  published  The 
Raven  in  this  paper.  The  Evening  Mirror,  and 
it  was  reprinted  in  T^he  American  Whig  Review. 
This  raised  his  value  as  a contributor,  in  giving 
him  a wider  celebrity  than  he  had  won  from  his 
tales  and  criticisms.  He  left  The  Evening 
Mirror,  and  opened  another  of  his  adventures 
as  an  editor.  He  joined  The  Broadway  Journal 
which  had  just  come  into  existence,  and,  as  with 
the  Messenger,  speedily  became  its  chief  contri- 
butor, and  finally  its  motive  power.  The  tenth 
number  of  the  Journal  announces  as  editors 
C.  F.  Briggs,  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  H.  C.  Watson. 

35 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


The  first  number  of  the  second  volume  is  edited 
by  Edgar  A.  Poe  and  Henry  C.  Watson.”  The 
sixteenth  number  of  the  second  volume  announces 
“ Edgar  A.  Poe,  Editor  and  Proprietor,”  and  the 
twenty- sixth  number,  January  3,  1846,  contains 
this  note  : 


Valedictory. 

“ Unexpected  engagements  demanding  my 
whole  attention,  and  the  objects  being  fulfilled, 
so  far  as  regards  myself  personally,  for  which 
The  Broadway  Journal  was  established,  I now, 
as  its  editor,  bid  farewell — as  cordially  to  foes  as 
to  friends. 

“ Mr.  Thomas  H.  Lowe  is  authorized  to 
collect  all  money  due  the  Journal. 

Edgar  A.  Poe.” 

The  Broadway  Journal  had  come  to  an  end. 
Poe  had  acquired  it  in  exchange  for  a promis- 
sory note  which  Horace  Greeley  endorsed  and 
had  to  meet.  Poe  borrowed  from  Griswold  to 
pay  his  printers.  He  succeeded  in  raising  the 
circulation,  but  a few  borrowed  dollars  will  not 
run  N paper,  and  the  paper  died  as  proudly  as  it 
might 

In  NeV  York  he  came  to  know  some  literary 
ladies^  who  were  to  take  a strange  part  in  the 
latter  yeiirsf  them,  Mrs. 

Osgood,  whose  ^Voetry  he  admired,  wrote,  when 
he  was  a dcsv  him  which,  though 

36 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


it  betrays  her  own  character  more  clearly  than 
his,  is  yet  worth  reading  as  a sidelight  upon  the 
colour  of  his  existence  : 

‘‘  It  was  in  his  own  simple  yet  poetical  home 
that  to  me  the  character  of  Edgar  Poe  appeared 
in  its  most  beautiful  light.  Playful,  affectionate, 
witty,  alternately  docile  and  wayward  as  a petted 
child,  for  his  young,  gentle,  and  idolised  wife, 
and  for  all  who  came,  he  had,  even  in  the  midst 
of  his  most  harassing  literary  duties,  a kind  word, 
a pleasant  smile,  a graceful  and  courteous  atten- 
tion. At  his  desk  beneath  the  romantic  picture 
of  his  loved  and  lost  Lenore,  he  would  sit,  hour 
after  hour,  patient,  assiduous,  and  uncomplain- 
ing, tracing,  in  an  exquisitely  clear  chirography, 
and  with  almost  superhuman  swiftness,  the  light- 
ning thoughts — the  ‘ rare  and  radiant  fancies  ’ 
— as  they  flashed  through  his  wonderful  and 
ever-wakeful  brain.  I recollect  one  morning, 
toward  the  close  of  his  residence  in  this  city, 
when  he  seemed  unusually  gay  and  light-hearted. 
Virginia,  his  sweet  wife,  had  written  me  a press- 
ing invitation  to  come  to  them ; and  I,  who 
never  could  resist  her  affectionate  summons,  and 
who  enjoyed  his  society  far  more  in  his  own 
home  than  elsewhere,  hastened  to  Amity  Street. 

I found  him  just  completing  his  series  of  papers 
entitled  The  Literati  of  New  York,  ‘See,’ 
said  he,  displaying  in  laughing  triumph  several 
little  rolls  of  narrow  paper  (he  always  wrote  thus 
for  the  press),  ‘ I am  going  to  show  you  by  the 
difference  of  length  in  these  the  different  degrees 

37 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


of  estimation  in  which  1 hold  all  you  literary 
people.  In  each  of  these  one  of  you  is  rolled  up 
and  fully  discussed.  Come,  Virginia,  help  me  I ’ 
And  one  by  one  they  unfolded  them.  At  last 
they  came  to  one  which  seemed  interminable. 
Virginia  laughingly  ran  to  one  corner  of  the 
room  with  one  end,  and  her  husband  to  the 
opposite  with  the  other.  ‘And  whose  length- 
ened sweetness  long  drawn  out  is  that  ? ’ said  I. 
‘Hear  her!’  he  cried.  ‘Just  as  if  her  little 
vain  heart  didn’t  tell  her  it’s  herself ! ’ ” 

Poe  found  in  the  friendship  of  women  a stimu- 
lant that  took  in  the  end  as  powerful  a hold  on 
him  as  drink.  His  wife  did  not  satisfy  his 
needs  of  intellectual  courtship,  and  she  even 
asked  Mrs.  Osgood  to  allow  and  to  suffer  her 
husband’s  letters.  Mrs.  Osgood  may  not  have 
loved  Poe,  but  she  describes  “his  proud  and 
beautiful  head  erect,  his  dark  eyes  flashing  with 
the  electric  light  of  feeling  and  of  thought,” 
and  says  that  “ to  a sensitive  and  delicately 
nurtured  woman,  there  was  a peculiar  and  irre- 
sistible charm  in  the  chivalric,  graceful,  and 
almost  tender  reverence  with  which  he  invari- 
ably approached  all  women  who  won  his  respect.” 
She  retained  her  feeling  for  him  till  she  died, 
though,  at  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  their 
acquaintanceship,  busybodies  had  made  their 
meetings  impossible. 

During  that  year  he  moved  out  of  New  York 

38 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


to  the  little  cottage  at  Fordham  which  has 
usurped  the  pretensions  of  all  his  other  resting- 
places,  and  come  to  represent  Poe’s  home  life. 
He  only  lived  there  during  the  last  two  and  a 
half  years  of  his  forty.  Mrs.  Whitman,  who  in 
the  last  act  of  his  life  became  an  important 
person  of  the  drama,  described  it  as  “a  little 
Dutch  cottage  . . . bordered  by  a flower 
garden,  whose  clumps  of  rare  dahlias  and 
brilliant  beds  of  fall  flowers  showed,  in  the 
careful  culture  bestowed  upon  them,  the  fine 
floral  taste  of  the  inmates.”  The  cottage  was 
half  buried  in  fruit  trees.  Mrs.  Clemm,  as 
always,  did  the  work,  and  the  three  of  them 
must  there  have  had  some  happiness  from  their 
lives.  They  had  pets,  a bobolink  and  a parrot, 
and  a cat  that  used  to  sit  on  Poe’s  shoulder  as 
he  wrote. 

But  they  became  so  poor  that  a public  appeal 
was  made  for  them,  which  Poe  was  too  proud  to 
allow  without  protest.  Friends  cared  for  them, 
fed  them,  and  nursed  the  now  rapidly  sinking 
Virginia.  She  died  on  January  30,  1847,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-four.  Poe  was  worn  out  by  priva- 
tion and  anxiety,  and  fell  seriously  ill. 


39 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


IX 

He  slowly  recovered,  and  spent  the  remainder 
of  the  year  in  thinking  out  and  writing  Eureka. 
He  published  Ulalume  in  December.  His 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  had  been  stolen  by 
more  than  one  French  paper,  and  the  first  French 
criticism  upon  him  had  appeared  in  the  Revue 
des  JDeuoc  Mondes.  Baudelaire  was  about  to 
devote  the  better  part  of  his  life  to  the  exposition 
of  his  doctrines  and  the  translation  of  his  work. 
But  Poe  could  not  know  this,  and  the  loneliness 
that  followed  him  to  his  death  began  to  be 
oppressive.  He  was,  however,  again  full  of  the 
hope  of  founding  a magazine.  On  January  22, 
1840,  he  wrote  to  Willis : 

‘‘  My  dear  Mr.  Willis, — I am  about  to  make 
an  effort  at  re-establishing  myself  in  the  literary 
world,  2iiiidi  feel  that  I may  depend  upon  your  aid. 

‘‘  My  general  aim  is  to  start  a Magazine,  to  be 
called  The  Stylus,  but  it  would  be  useless  to  me, 
even  when  established,  if  not  entirely  out  of  the 
control  of  a publisher.  I mean,  therefore,  to  get 
up  a Journal  which  shall  be  my  own,  at  all  points. 
With  this  end.  in  view,  I must  get  a list  of,  at 
least,  five  hundred  subscribers  to  begin  with : — 
nearly  tw^o  hundred  I have  already.  I propose, 
however,  to  go  South  and  West,  among  my 
personal  and  literary  friends — old  college  and 

40 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 


West  Point  acquaintances — and  see  what  I can 
do.  In  order  to  get  the  means  of  taking  the  first 
step,  I propose  to  lecture  at  the  Society  Library, 
on  Thursday  the  3d  of  February — and  that  there 
may  be  no  cause  of  squabbling,  my  subject  shall 
not  be  literary  at  all.  I have  chosen  a broad  text 
— ‘ The  Universe.’ 

“ Having  thus  given  you  the  facts  of  the  case,  I 
leave  all  the  rest  to  the  suggestion  of  your  own  tact 
and  generosity.  Gratefully — 7nost  gratefully — 

‘‘  Your  friend  always, 

“Edgar  A.  Poe.” 

The  lecture  was  an  abridged  version  of  Eureka. 
It  did  not  bring  him  the  money  for  which  he  had 
hoped.  He  repeated  elsewhere  his  lecture  on 
The  Poetic  Principle,  But  The  Stylus  was  never 
to  appear. 

I have  already  spoken  of  his  friendships  for 
women,  encouraged,  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Osgood, 
by  his  wife.  After  her  death,  his  need  of  feminine 
companionship  became  a disease.  He  could  not 
do  without  it.  This  was  no  physical  need,  nor 
even  “ falling  in  love.”  It  had  two  motives. 
He  could  not  be  satisfied  with  the  motherly  and 
man-servant-like  attention  of  Mrs.  Clemm,  but 
felt  an  imperious  need  of  marriage,  of  being 
married,  of  being  re-established  in  life  on  a firm 
basis,  as  he  hoped  with  his  paper  to  re-establish 
himself  in  literary  America.  A wife  became  a 
thing  as  full  of  beckoning  promise  to  him  as 

41 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


The  Stylus.  Pie  sought  both  with  equal  abandon. 
Beside  this  new  motive  was  another.  He  had 
loved  Virginia,  but,  even  while  she  was  alive,  had 
sought  to  live  other  poems  with  other  women. 
They  were  harmless  little  German  poems,  of 
holding  hands,  and  walks  in  the  dusk,  and 
meetings  of  mystery-laden  eyes.  They  were  part 
of  his  life,  and  we  are  now  given  the  dishearten- 
ing spectacle  of  Poe  making  love  to  two  or  three 
middle-aged  women  at  once,  and  oscillating  in  his 
mind  between  several  prospects  of  married  life 
under  the  care  of  different  guardian  angels  of  lite- 
rary tastes.  No  more  brain- wrecking  condition 
can  be  imagined,  and  its  harassments  were  not 
lessened  by  his  other  and  more  physical  disease. 

Within  a year  of  his  death  he  had  written  to 
Mrs.  Whitman : 

‘‘  The  agonies  which  I have  lately  endured  have 
passed  my  soul  through  fire.  Henceforth  I am 
strong.  This  those  who  love  me  shall  know  as 
well  as  those  who  have  so  relentlessly  sought  to 
ruin  me.  ...  I have  absolutely  no  pleasure  in 
the  stimulants  in  which  I sometimes  so  madly 
indulge.  It  has  not  been  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure  that  I have  perilled  life  and  reputation 
and  reason.  It  has  been  in  the  desperate  attempt 
to  escape  from  torturing  memories — memories 
of  wrong  and  injustice  and  imputed  dishonour — 
from  a sense  of  insupportable  loneliness  and  a 
dread  of  some  strange  impending  doom.” 

42 


BIOGRAPHICAL  BACKGROUND 

But  the  two  diseases  reacted  on  each  other, 
and  soon  frenzied  wooings  alternated  with  bouts 
of  drinking.  He  was  also  taking  laudanum. 
Now  one  marriage  was  arranged  and  now  another. 
It  is  surprising  that  he  still  wrote.  During  1849, 
he  lectured  again  on  The  Poetic  Principle,  and 
made  renewed  efforts  to  secure  money  for  The 
Stylus.  He  more  than  once  had  serious  warn- 
ings of  the  rapid  approach  of  his  end.  He  had, 
however,  at  Richmond  a St.  Martin’s  summer  of 
happiness  with  some  friends.  He  prepared  to 
settle  at  Richmond,  but,  on  a journey  to  New 
York,  stopped  at  Baltimore  and  drank  enough 
to  make  further  travelling  impossible.  The 
elections  were  being  fought,  and  canvassers  find- 
ing him  already  drunk,  kept  him  so,  and  dragged 
him  about  from  place  to  place  to  record  his  vote  for 
their  candidate.  On  October  8,  he  was  recognised 
and  taken  to  the  hospital  in  delirium  tremens. 
The  manner  of  his  death  suggests  that  of  Bamp- 
fylde,  described  in  one  of  Southey’s  letters. 
After  a bountiful  youth  of  open  air  and  poetry, 
he  had  come  to  town,  and  found  his  way  into  a 
madhouse,  only  recovering  his  reason  and  freedom 
to  die  of  a consumption.  The  doctor  urged  him 
to  go  to  Devonshire,  saying  his  friends  would  be 
glad  to  see  him.  He  hid  his  face  and  answered, 
‘No,  sir;  they  who  saw  me  what  I was,  shall 
never  see  me  what  I am.’  ” Just  so  died  Poe,  on 

48 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

October  7,  1849.  The  resident  physician  at  the 
hospital  told  him  he  hoped  that  in  a few  days 
he  would  be  able  to  enjoy  the  society  of  his 
friends.  . . . At  this  he  broke  out  with  much 
energy,  and  said  the  best  thing  his  best  friend 
could  do  would  be  to  blow  out  his  brains  with  a 
pistol.”*  He  became  delirious  again,  and  then, 
at  three  o’clock  of  a Sunday  morning  grew  quiet, 
and  died,  saying  ‘‘  Lord  help  my  poor  soul.” 

*-Letter  from  Dr.  Moran  to  Mrs.  Clemm.  Woodberry. 


44 


A PRELIMINARY  NOTE  ON 
POE’S  CRITICISM 


A PKELIMINARY  NOTE  ON 
POE’S  CRITICISM 

THERE  is  a stridency  in  Poe’s  critical  writings 
that  we  do  not  find  elsewhere.  Even  the  rude 
essays  of  the  old  Blackwood  and  Quarterly 
reviewers  sound  a fuller  note,  a rounder  tone. 
And,  among  men  on  Poe’s  level,  Hazlitt  argues, 
Leigh  Hunt  recites,  and  Lamb  insinuates,  all 
with  a tenderer  regard  for  listeners’  ears.  These 
are  English  critics,  but  Lowell,  with  whom,  as 
an  American,  it  is  fairer  to  compare  Poe,  roars 
you  as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove.”  I call 
Lowell  an  American,  but  the  distinction  between 
them,  to  which  is  due  Poe’s  stridency  and 
Lowell’s  mildness  is  this : Lowell,  from  his 
study  window,  compliments  his  readers  with  the 
assumption  that  they  are  of  the  Old  World  or 
as  good  in  the  same  way ; Poe  lectures  frankly 
from  an  American  tub  to  an  audience  of 
Americans,  and,  his  subject  being  what  it  is, 
far  from  their  common  interests,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  he  has  to  shout  to  make  his  speeches 
heard. 


47 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


English  criticism  had  influenced  Poe’s  youth. 
Coleridge’s  BiograpJiia  Literaria,  that  hetero- 
geneous, mazelike  work,  in  whose  blind  alleys 
and  unfinished  roads  there  is  more  than  in  any 
other  English  book  of  searching  knowledge  of 
the  processes  and  ends  of  composition,  shaped 
Poe’s  conception  of  the  object  of  writing,  and 
started  him  on  his  quest  of  an  eesthetic  theory. 
In  the  Letter  to  B , with  which  he  pre- 

faced an  early  edition  of  his  poems,  he  adopts, 
knowingly  or  unknowingly  it  is  irrelevant  to 
discuss,  Coleridge’s  words. 

Coleridge  writes  : A poem  is  that  species  of 
composition,  which  is  opposed  to  works  of  science, 
by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object  pleasure, 
not  truth.  . . 

Poe : A poem,  in  my  opinion,  is  opposed  to  a 
work  of  science  by  having,  for  its  immediate 
object,  pleasure,  not  truth.  ...” 

The  phrase  “ in  my  opinion  ” being  true, 
justifies  him,  I suppose,  in  using  the  words  of 
the  man  by  whom  the  opinion  had  been  formed. 
Coleridge  walks  like  a ghost  through  much  of 
Poe’s  criticism,  although  their  understandings  of 
a critic’s  duties  were  directly  opposite.  England 
and  America  needed  differently  built  reviewers. 

“He  who  tells  me,”  writes  Coleridge,  “that 
there  are  defects  in  a new  work,  tells  me  nothing 

48 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 


which  I should  not  have  taken  for  granted  with- 
out his  information.  But  he  who  points  out 
and  elucidates  the  beauties  of  an  original  work 
does  indeed  give  me  interesting  information,  such 
as  experience  would  not  have  authorised  me  in 
anticipating.” 

Coleridge’s  reviewer  was  such  a man  as  Leigh 
Hunt,  whose  scattered  italics  bring  his  voice  to 
us  across  the  garden  where  he  reads,  or,  through  a 
subtler  development  of  the  same  spirit,  such  a 
man  as  Pater,  in  whose  company  our  eyes  are 
awakened  to  the  tinted  mist  that  rises  from  the 
flowers — the  mist  that  perhaps  we  had  not  before 
been  able  to  perceive.  Such  a critic  was,  some- 
times, that  old  Greek  pedagogue  of  whom  Pope 
wrote  : 

“ See  Dionysius  Homer’s  thoughts  refine 

And  call  new  Beauties  forth  from  ev’ry  Line.” 

His  choice  of  beauties  is  indeed  valuable, 
balanced  as  it  is  by  a wise  selection  of  defects 
from  other  writers.  Pater’s  disentanglements 
and  drawings-out  of  loveliness  are  like  Carriere’s 
pictures  in  their  leisurely  revelation.  Leigh 
Hunt’s  turned-down  leaves  and  marked  passages 
give  his  criticism  the  charm  of  reading  aloud. 

Poe’s  criticism  is  without  charm,  and  he 
resembles  Dionysius  writing  of  Hegesias  more 
often  than  Dionysius  quoting  Homer  or  playing 

49  D 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


showman  to  Sappho.  He  had  sterner  work  to 
do  than  Hunt’s  or  Pater’s.  We  have  to  remem- 
ber the  America  in  which  he  wrote.  Its  criti- 
cism, when  he  began  to  write,  was  a tumult  of 
timid  flattery  and  unreasoning  praise.  America 
had  so  lately  ceased  to  be  a colony  that  the  Old 
World  was  still  indiscriminately  reverenced  at  the 
expense  of  the  New.  Its  homegrown  civilisation 
was  so  fresh  that  accomplishment,  however  poor, 
was  more  often  admired  than  judged.  American 
letters  were  on  the  one  hand  neglected  for 
European,  and  on  the  other  uncritically  praised 
because  they  were  American.  Poe  was  clear  in 
his  denunciation  of  both  these  evils. 

“ You  are  aware  of  the  great  barrier  in  the 
path  of  an  American  writer.  He  is  read,  if  at 
all,  in  preference  to  the  combined  and  estab- 
lished wit  of  the  world.  I say  established  ; for 
it  is  with  literature  as  with  law  or  empire — an 
established  name  is  an  estate  in  tenure,  or  a 
throne  in  possession.  Besides,  one  might  sup- 
pose that  books,  like  their  authors,  improve  by 
travel — their  having  crossed  the  sea  is,  with  us, 
so  great  a distinction.  Our  antiquaries  abandon 
time  for  distance ; our  very  fops  glance  from  the 
binding  to  the  bottom  of  the  title-page,  where 
the  mystic  characters  which  spell  London,  Paris, 
or  Genoa,  are  precisely  so  many  letters  of  recom- 
mendation.” 

This  complaint  holds  the  grievance  of  all 

50 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 


young  writers,  who  see  the  bony  fingers  of 
Shakespeare  and  Spenser  reaching  from  the 
grave  to  pluck  the  cloaks  of  those  who,  unde- 
tained, might  read  the  books  just  published  by 
themselves.  That  is  hard,  but  Americans  of 
Poe’s  time  suffered  a competition  more  unfair. 
A writer  who  felt  himself  peer  to  some  at  least 
of  the  dead,  saw  his  readers  held  from  him  not 
only  by  the  classics  but  by  a thousand  medio- 
crities whose  foreign  birth  alone  gave  them  the 
word  before  him. 

Poe  complained  of  this  handicap  but  did  not 
spare  the  faults  he  saw  at  home.  He  would 
have  no  petting  of  his  countrymen. 


- It  is  folly  to  assert,  as  some  at  present  are 
fond  of  asserting,  that  the  literature  of  any 
nation  or  age  was  ever  injured  by  plain  speak- 
ing on  the  part  of  the  critics.  As  for  American 
letters,  plain  speaking  about  them  is,  simply,  the 
one  thing  needed.  They  are  in  a condition  of 
absolute  quagmire — a quagmire,  to  use  the 
words  of  Victor  Hugo,  ‘ d oil  on  ne  pent  se  tirei' 
par  des  periphrases — par  des  quemadmodums  et 
des  verumenimvei'os.^  ” 


American  criticism  had  not  the  dignity  that 
could  raise  the  standard  of  American  judgment, 
being  fully  occupied  in  unlimited  praise  of  the 
foreigner  and  hurried  praise  of  its  friends,  com- 

51 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


paring  them  one  by  one  to  the  models  it  un- 
questioningly  imported. 

“ When  we  attend  less  to  ‘ authority,’  ” wrote 
Poe,  and  more  to  principles,  when  we  look  less 
at  merit  and  more  at  demerit  (instead  of  the 
converse,  as  some  persons  suggest),  we  shall 
then  be  better  critics  than  we  are.  We  must 
neglect  our  models  and  study  our  capabilities. 
The  mad  eulogies,  on  what  occasionally  has,  in 
letters,  been  well  done,  spring  from  our  imperfect 
comprehension  of  what  it  is  possible  for  us  to  do 
better.  ‘ A man  who  has  never  seen  the  sun,’ 
says  Calderon,  ‘ cannot  be  blamed  for  thinking 
that  no  glory  can  exceed  that  of  the  moon ; a 
man  who  has  seen  neither  moon  nor  sun  cannot 
be  blamed  for  expatiating  on  the  incomparable 
effulgence  of  the  morning  star.’  Now  it  is  the 
business  of  the  critic  so  to  soar  that  he  shall  see 
the  sun,  even  although  its  orb  be  far  below  the 
ordinary  horizon.” 

In  America  were  many  morning  stars  who 
had  not  their  friends  to  thank  if  they  did  not 
mistake  themselves  for  suns.  According  to  the 
newspapers,  whose  short-sighted  eyes  are  always 
easily  dazzled,  the  sky  was  ablaze  with  light.  It 
was  impossible  to  look  ‘‘  full  in  the  face  of  the 
blue  firmament,”  so  thickly  clustered  and  so 
radiant  were  the  false  centres  of  the  solar 
system.  A Poe  was  indeed  needed  who  could 
sight  the  true  orb,  and,  having  seen  it,  put  out 

52 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 


the  lesser  lights.  He  stated  accordingly  a 
principle  of  criticism  the  exact  opposite  of 
Coleridge’s,  and,  in  putting  it  upon  a philoso- 
phical basis,  the  practical  reason  for  it  not 
sufficing  him,  came  upon  an  important  link  in 
the  chain  of  his  eesthetic  theory. 

Boccalini,  in  his  Advertisements  from 
Parnassus,  tells  us  that  a critic  once  presented 
Apollo  with  a severe  censure  upon  an  excellent 
poem.  The  god  asked  him  for  the  beauties  of 
the  work.  He  replied  that  he  only  troubled 
himself  about  the  errors.  Apollo  presented  him 
with  a sack  of  unwinnowed  wheat,  and  bade  him 
pick  out  all  the  chaff  for  his  pains.  Now  we 
have  not  fully  made  up  our  minds  that  the  god 
was  in  the  right.  We  are  not  sure  that  the  limit 
of  critical  duty  is  not  very  generally  misappre- 
hended. Excellence  may  be  considered  an 
axiom,  or  a proposition  which  becomes  self- 
evident  just  in  proportion  to  the  clearness  or 
precision  with  which  it  is  put.  If  it  fairly  exists, 
in  this  sense,  it  requires  no  further  elucidation. 
It  is  not  excellence  if  it  need  to  be  demonstrated 
as  such.  To  point  out  too  particularly  the 
beauties  of  a work  is  to  admit,  tacitly,  that  these 
beauties  are  not  wholly  admirable.  Regarding 
then  excellence  as  that  which  is  capable  of  self- 
manifestation, it  but  remains  for  the  critic  to 
show  when,  where,  and  how  it  fails  in  becoming 
manifest ; and,  in  this  showing,  it  will  be  the 
fault  of  the  book  itself  if  what  of  beauty  it 
contains  be  not,  at  least,  placed  in  the  fairest 

53 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


light.  In  a word,  we  may  assume,  notwith- 
standing a vast  deal  of  pitiable  cant  upon  this 
topic,  that  in  pointing  out  frankly  the  errors  of  a 
work,  we  do  nearly  all  that  is  critically  necessary 
in  displaying  its  merits.  In  teaching  what  per- 
fection 25,  how,  in  fact,  shall  we  more  rationally 
proceed  than  in  specifying  what  it  is  not  ? ” 

He  approaches  here  the  theory  of  Benedetto 
Croce,  a comparison  of  whose  ideas  with  Poe’s 
always  illumines  the  unseen  object  of  his 
thought.  Reading  beauty  for  excellence,  which, 
after  examining  our  definition  of  beauty,  Poe 
would  have  allowed,  we  can  more  clearly  under- 
stand his  view.*  Beauty,  or  expression,  is  self- 
evident  in  so  far  as  it  is  truly  beauty,  truly 
expression.  To  demonstrate  it  as  such  is  only 
to  repeat  it  in  identical  terms,  or  to  say  that  a 
thing  that  is  the  same  thing  is  equal  to  the  same 
thing ; and  this  is  waste  of  time.  It  is  more 
profitable  to  note  those  moments  of  self-contra- 
diction, those  small  mutinies  that,  quarrelling 
with  individual  beauties,  destroy  the  whole  ex- 
pression. A cultivated  sensitiveness  to  discord 
is  the  same  thing  as  an  appreciation  of  harmony. 

These  were  the  reasons,  this  the  principle  that 
determined  the  character  of  Poe’s  criticism,  and 
made  his  articles,  even  on  the  poets  he  admired 
— like  Mrs.  Browning — read  like  attacks.  They 

* In  another  passage  he  makes  the  substitution  himself. 

54 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 


are  indeed  unfair  unless  we  have  given  the  ex- 
cellences of  the  books  reviewed  an  opportunity 
for  self-manifestation.  Many  critics,  rightly 
caring  that  their  work  should  be  itself  creative 
and  valuable  on  its  own  account,  are  indifferent 
as  to  whether  we  have  read  or  seen  the  books 
or  pictures  that  have  engendered  it.  Pater’s 
Mona  Lisa  can  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  have 
not  been  to  the  Louvre  to  see  Leonardo’s.  A 
knowledge  of  Villon’s  poetry  is  not  necessary 
to  a just  delight  in  Stevenson’s  essay  on  his 
favourite  vagabond.  But  Poe,  perhaps  unwisely, 
paid  his  readers  the  compliment  of  supposing 
that  they  read  the  books  first  and  his  criticisms 
afterwards. 

Three  volumes  of  his  collected  works  are  filled 
with  judgments  upon  English  and  American 
literature,  and  with  essays  upon  his  art,  uncon- 
nected with  particular  books.  There  is  much 
here  that  is  worthless,  but  it  is  easy  to  winnow 
the  grain  of  his  intended  criticism  from  the  chaff 
of  unformed  opinion,  praise  written  only  for  the 
day  and  blame  that  had  not  had  time  to  grow 
philosophical.  There  is  no  need  to  judge  a 
man’s  aim  by  those  occasions  on  which  Forced 
Haste,  an  unfriendly  hand,  pulls  his  arm  aside  at 
the  moment  of  loosing  the  arrow,  or  sends  the 
shaft  upon  its  way  before  his  eye  is  steady  on 
the  target.  In  thinking  of  Poe’s  critical  work, 

55 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


we  think  of  his  Hawthorne^  and  his  Philo- 
sophy of  Composition,  and  the  other  essays 
whose  temper  of  mind  lets  them  share  with 
these  a swift  and  dry-shod  life. 

These  essays  turn  readily  from  a discussion  of 
this  or  that  volume  to  speculation  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  literature.  The  needs  of  American 
letters  are  often  forgotten  for  a higher  purpose, 
and  few  books  of  criticism  are  more  valuable  to 
writers  who  care  worthily  for  the  art  they  prac- 
tise. Narrative,  plot,  inversion,  the  length  of 
poems,  all  the  secrets  of  literature’s  harmony 
and  counterpoint,  are  one  after  another  his 
subject.  With  such  a view  of  criticism  as  was 
his  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  does  not  often 
describe  his  own  adventures  among  masterpieces, 
though  here  and  there  are  vivid  fragments  of 
characterisation.  Of  Coleridge,  for  example : 

“In  reading  his  poetry,  I tremble  like  one 
who  stands  upon  a volcano,  conscious  from  the 
very  darkness  bursting  from  the  crater,  of  the 
fire  and  light  that  are  weltering  below.” 

Of  Macaulay : 

“.  . . we  assent  to  what  he  says  too  often 
because  we  so  very  clearly  understand  what  it  is 
that  he  intends  to  say.  Comprehending  vividly 
the  points  and  the  sequence  of  his  argument,  we 
fancy  that  we  are  concurring  in  the  argument 
itself.” 


56 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 


Of  Defoe : 

‘‘  Not  one  person  in  ten — nay  not  one  person  in 
five  hundred — has,  during  the  perusal  of  Robin- 
son Crusoe^  the  most  remote  conception  that  any 
particle  of  genius,  or  even  of  common  talent,  has 
been  employed  in  its  creation.  Men  do  not  look 
upon  it  in  the  light  of  a literary  performance. 
Defoe  has  none  of  their  thoughts — Robinson  all. 
The  powers  which  have  wrought  the  wonder 
have  been  thrust  into  obscurity  by  the  very 
stupendousness  of  the  wonder  they  have  wrought. 
We  read  and  become  perfect  abstractions  in  the 
intensity  of  our  interest ; we  close  the  book,  and 
are  quite  satisfied  that  we  could  have  written  as 
well  ourselves.” 

These  fragments,  which  are  just  and  careful,  are 
certainly  balanced  by  opinions  on  other  writers 
with  which  time  has  not  brought  the  world  to 
agree,  or  kept  it  in  agreement.  Poe  praised 
Moore  extravagantly,  and  also  Hood ; but,  per- 
haps because  of  his  dislike  of  seers  and  teachers, 
could  not  bring  himself  to  write  with  courtesy 
of  Emerson  or  Carlyle. 

It  is  not  by  such  passages  or  opinions  that  his 
criticism  can  be  judged.  Many  theorists  astonish 
us  by  the  wrongness  or  rightness  of  their  examples 
without  in  either  case  affecting  the  truth  of  the 
argument.  And  Poe’s  interest  was  less  in  indi- 
viduals than  in  the  principles  and  nature  of  their 
art.  The  De  Sublimitate  of  Longinus  might 

57 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

be  paralleled  with  a Concerning  Beauty  made 
up  entirely  of  quotations  from  Poe’s  critical 
work.  Indeed  this  book  is,  in  a humble  manner, 
such  a collection.  It  is  impossible  to  discuss 
Poe’s  practice  without  reference  to  what  he  has 
himself  written  on  his  theory.  I have  placed 
this  chapter  first  because  it  overflows  into  all  the 
others.  I think  it  better  to  consider  his  views 
on  the  length  of  a poem  while  writing  of  his 
poetry,  and  his  ideas  on  story-telling  while  writing 
of  his  tales,  to  take  only  two  examples,  than  to 
crowd  these  and  many  other  fertile  opinions  into 
an  essay  either  too  long  for  the  book  or  too  short 
for  their  illustration.  His  views  on  self-conscious 
art  were  in  any  case  too  important  not  to  need 
a chapter  to  themselves. 

It  is  sufficient  here  to  point  out  that  in 
these  three  volumes,  strident  in  pitch,  often 
exaggerated  in  tone,  sometimes  difficult  to 
read  with  patience,  lie  the  greater  number  of  his 
efforts  towards  an  aesthetic  philosophy.  As  he 
worked,  so  he  thought,  and  observed  his  work 
and  that  of  other  men.  His  skill  and  observa- 
tion grew  with  each  other’s  growth.  Building 
on  the  foundation  that  held  excellence  to  be 
itself  manifest,  Poe  raised  for  himself  a structure 
of  knowledge  about  the  means  of  avoiding  ugli- 
ness or  failure  in  expression.  There  is  no  rule 
for  the  creation  of  beauty,  but  there  are  many 

58 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 


for  freeing  loveliness  from  its  fetters.  Perseus 
cannot  make  an  Andromeda,  but  he  can  loose 
her  from  the  rock.  The  varying,  hazardous 
nature  of  Poe’s  conception  of  beauty  will  be- 
come clear  to  us  as  we  proceed.  She  appeared 
to  him  in  changing  veils,  now  pure  and  trans- 
parent, now  dimmed  and  opaque  with  lesser 
heresies,  but  never  beneath  a veil  so  darkening 
as  that  through  which  she  shows  to  men  who 
have  never  troubled  to  cleanse  their  eyes  or  to 
ask  themselves  what  indeed  they  see.  No  other 
goddess  has  suffered  such  violence  at  the  hands 
of  her  worshippers,  none  has  been  so  cheapened 
in  the  mouths  of  her  talkative  priests.  Poe  at 
least  tried  to  set  her  on  her  throne,  and  pro- 
scribed as  irreverent  those  side  glances  towards 
didacticism  that  bring  ruin  to  so  many  of  those 
who  should  have  been  her  single-minded  ser- 
vants. He  did  this  in  the  heat  of  battle ; and, 
whenever  the  smoke  cleared  about  him,  he  did 
more;  setting  her  by  herself,  and  demanding 
desperately,  from  men  who  did  not  care,  that 
her  religion  should  be  uncontaminated  by  ethic, 
unblurred  by  passion,  and  that  the  goddess 
should  be  served  with  the  high  obedience  she 
demands,  and  worshipped  with  the  spiritual 
exaltation  properly  her  own. 


59 


i-V"., 


tj‘ 


1 


t. 


•''f 


SELF-CONSCIOUS 

TECHNIQUE 


SELF-CONSCIOUS 

TECHNIQUE 

THERE  is  a note,  one  of  a series  of  Marginalia, 
jetsam  from  old  reviews,  and  new  paragraphs  too 
careful  to  be  unpremeditated,  whose  light  must 
not  be  hidden  under  the  bushel  of  a general  dis- 
cussion of  Poe  s criticism.  ‘‘  It  is  the  curse,”  he 
says,  ‘‘of  a certain  order  of  mind,  that  it  can 
never  rest  satisfied  with  the  consciousness  of  its 
ability  to  do  a thing.  Not  even  is'  it  content 
with  doing  it.  It  must  both  know  and  show 
how  it  was  done.”  Now  this  is  the  curse  that 
gave  us  Leonardo’s  notebooks,  Reynolds’  Dis- 
courses, and  Stevenson’s  essay  on  Some  Tech- 
nical Elements  in  Style : the  curse  that  is  among 
the  reasons  of  Leonardo’s  excellence,  Reynolds’ 
excellence,  Stevenson’s  excellence  and  the  ex- 
cellence of  Poe  himself.  It  is  the  curse  that  is 
at  the  bottom  of  all  public  knowledge  of  tech- 
nique. The  man  who  is  as  interested  in  the  way 
of  doing  a thing  as  in  the  thing  when  done,  is 
the  man  who  is  likely  to  put  a new  tool  into  the 
hands  of  his  fellow-craftsmen.  Such  men  some- 

63 


[EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

times  suffer  for  their  curiosity.  Poe  called  it  a 
curse  because  he  feared  it  while  enjoying  it.  He 
learnt  that  it  is  possible  for  an  artist  to  debauch 
in  technique  as  for  a lover  to  take  the  body  for 
the  soul,  and  that  in  one  case  as  in  the  other  it 
is  the  spirit  that  is  lost. 

Poe’s  own  methods  came  gradually  to  be  such 
a delight  to  him ; his  interest  in  them  was  so 
particularised  by  his  essays  in  criticism  and  in 
the  observation  of  the  methods  of  other  men, 
that  some  of  his  later  works  have  an  uncanny 
atmosphere  about  them,  as  if  he  had  not  written 
them  himself,  but  had  been  present,  passionately 
observant  and  critical,  while  they  were  being 
written  by  some  one  else.  Imagination,  from 
being  a queen,  sometimes  becomes  in  them  that 
slave  of  the  intellect  which  is  called  fancy.  They 
are  richly-coloured  marionettes  that  have  never 
lived,  but  owe  a wire-hung  activity  to  their 
maker’s  cleverness.  Poe  was  too  good  an  ob- 
server of  himself  not  to  notice  his  danger.  He 
must  have  known  that  he  ran  a risk  of  dying 
for  Art,  as  a greater  than^  he  had  died  for  Life. 
It  was  his  destiny,  and  he  pursued  it.  More 
than  once  he  used  his  pen  to  make  a new  thing 
out  of  a discussion  of  an  old  one,  and  on  these 
occasions  he  dissects  his  own  motives  in  so  im- 
personal a manner  that  it  is  difficult  for  the 
reader  to  remember  that  the  author  examining 

61 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

is  in  any  way  connected  with  the  author  under- 
going examination.  The  Raven,  for  example,  a ^ 
profound  piece  of  technique,  is  scarcely  as  pro- 
found, and  certainly  not  as  surprising,  as  the 
Philosophy  of  Composition,  in  which  its  con- 
struction is  minutely  analysed,  and  Poe  callously 
explains,  as  a matter  of  scientific  rather  than 
personal  interest,  that  the  whole  poem  was  built 
on  the  refrain  Nevermore,  and  that  this  par- 
ticular refrain  was  chosen  on  account  of  the 
sonority  and  ease  of  o and  r sounded  together. 
Baudelaire,  in  calling  attention  to  a poet  ‘‘  qui  ^ 
pretend  que  son  po^me  a 4te  compose  d’apr^s  son 
poetique,”  remarks  that  apr^s  tout  un  peu  de 
charlatanerie  est  toujours  permis  au  genie,  et 
meme  ne  lui  messied  pas.  C est  comme  le  fard 
sur  les  pommettes  d’une  femme  naturellement 
belle,  un  assaisonnement  nouveau  pour  Fesprit.” 
Mountebank  or  not,  Poe  was  serious  in  his  state- 
ment. It  was  not  intended  as  a hoax,  but 
carried  real  aspiration  into  actuality,  and  noted, 
in  their  extreme  manifestation,  the  workings 
possible  to  such  a mind  as  Poe  felt  was  his  own. 

In  that  article  he  tries  to  carry  a point.  Half- 
measures are  no  measures  in  oratory,  and,  the 
truth  being  on  his  side,  he  might  well  be  per- 
mitted to  say  more  than  the  truth  in  stating  it 
to  an  audience.  We  are  concerned  here  less 
with  what  he  says  than  with  the  point  of  view 

65  E 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

that  lets  him  say  it.  How  different  is  this  way 
of  talking  about  writing  from  the  anecdote  of 
Hoffmann,  who  held  his  wife’s  hand  lest,  in 
terror  of  the  phantasmagoria  he  created,  he 
should  lose  his  reason  and  forget  the  existence  of 
a homelier  and  less  delirious  world.  How  dif- 
ferent from  the  letters  of  Balzac,  noting  joyously 
the  amount  of  paper  he  had  daily  been  able  to 
cover.  How  different  from  the  tale  of  Scott’s 
tireless  hand,  or  the  account  of  George  Sand, 
writing  with  babies  on  her  knees,  starting  her 
characters  on  their  careers,  keeping  beside  them 
with  fluent  pen,  and  following  their  adventures 
as  ignorant  as  themselves  of  the  end  towards 
which  they  were  progressing. 

Another  man,  who,  like  Poe,  was  at  once  a 
philosopher  and  deeply  interested  in  technique, 
had  lived  and  written,  and  from  him  Poe  had  that 
strengthening  of  his  ideas  that  is  given  by  out- 
side confirmation.  He  refers  often  to  William 
Godwin,  the  author  of  An  Enquiry  concerning 
Political  Justice  and  of  several  novels,  among 
them  one  now  most  undeservedly  half-forgotten, 
called  Caleb  Williams.  There  is  a character 
of  Godwin  in  The  Spirit  of  the  Age,  where 
Hazlitt  has  noted  that  his  forte  is  not  the 
spontaneous  but  the  voluntary  exercise  of  talent,” 
a sentence  which,  if  Poe  read  it,  would  have  been 
enough  to  interest  him  in  its  subject.  He  re- 

66 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

minded  those  who  knew  him  of  the  Meta- 
physician engrafted  on  the  Dissenting  Minister.” 
Shelley,  who  repaid  him  in  the  end  by  running 
away  with  his  daughter,  wrote  him  boy’s  letters 
which  he  answered  with  chapter  and  verse  on 
the  conduct  of  life  taken  from  the  Political 
Justice,  He  was  a sombre  man,  and  his  novel 
is  a sombre,  muscular  book,  worth  reading  still 
for  other  reasons  besides  the  anatomy  which  at 
present  concerns  us.  It  is  seldom  possible  to 
point  to  any  one  book  as  the  sign-post  of  a 
literary  cross-roads,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  in  Caleb  Williams  we  can  see  the  begin- 
nings of  self-conscious  technique  in  story-telling. 
Hazlitt  wrote  of  it : ‘‘No  one  ever  began  Caleb 
Williavis  that  did  not  read  it  through ; no  one 
that  ever  read  it  could  possibly  forget  it,  or 
speak  of  it  after  any  length  of  time,  but  with  an 
impression  as  if  the  events  and  feelings  had  been 
personal  to  himself.”  And  the  author  had  not 
only  done  this,  but  had  known  how  it  was  done. 

It  is  usual  to  say  that  Poe  himself  was  the  first 
to  talk  of  choosing  an  effect  and  then  planning  a 
tale  to  produce  it.  But  Caleb  Williams  was 
published  in  1794,  and,  in  a preface  to  one  of 
the  later  editions,  Godwin  gave  his  methods 
away.  On  him  also  lay  that  fruitful  curse.  He 
wrote : “I  formed  a conception  of  a book  of  ^ 
fictitious  adventure  that  should  in  some  way  be 

67 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


distinguished  by  a very  powerful  interest.  Pur- 
suing this  idea,  I invented  first  the  third  volume 
of  my  tale,  then  the  second,  and  last  of  all  the 
first.” 

Godwin,  perhaps,  did  not  realise  how  revolu- 
tionary was  his  attitude ; and  even  Hazlitt, 
delighted  as  he  was  by  their  results,  does  not 
seem  to  have  noticed  the  novelty  of  his  methods. 
Dickens  mentioned  them  to  Poe  in  writing  to 
him  about  his  ingenious  article  on  the  mechanism 
of  Barnahy  Budge,  and  Poe,  finding  Godwin’s 
ideas  of  the  very  temper  of  his  own,  developed 
them  logically  as  far  as  they  would  go,  and,  in 
two  paragraphs  that  I shall  quote,  formulated 
clearly  the  principles  of  self-conscious  technique. 

But,  before  reading  them,  we  have  to  examine 
a proposition  assumed  by  the  title  of  this  chapter, 
and  by  all  that  has  been  written  in  it.  It  is  easy 
to  talk  about  things  that  have  not  been  defined, 
but  impossible  to  talk  about  them  profitably. 
We  have  assumed  that  there  is  a well-understood 
difference  between  conception  and  craftsmanship. 
Let  us  justify  the  assumption.  Until  we  have 
done  so  we  are  playing  at  battledore  with  a 
shuttlecock  that  does  not  exist. 

We  must  find  for  our  own  satisfaction  an 
intelligible  process  for  the  miracle  of  beauty’s 
creation.  There  is  no  need  to  break  our  heads 
on  the  rash  enterprise  of  proving  that  there  is  no 

68 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

miracle  at  all.  Let  us  leave  that  to  those  who 
can  believe  that  a theory  of  our  descent  from 
protoplasm  explains  not  only  our  growth  but  our 
original  birth.  In  the  making  of  all  beautiful 
things,  poems,  stories,  pictures,  in  the  making  of 
all  things  that  bring  us,  beside  their  emotion  of 
pain  or  joy  or  passion,  a breath  of  that  ecstasy 
that  is  not  of  earth  and  gives  us  kinship  with  the 
conscious  Gods,  there  is  a miracle.  The  pro- 
cesses of  art  of  which  we  are  about  to  speak  are 
but  the  reverent  preparation  of  the  altar  on  which 
the  miracle  will  be  performed,  the  holy  fire  will 
fall,  or  the  bread  be  turned  to  living  flesh. 

Shelley,  in  The  Defence  of  Poetry,  writes  : 

‘‘  A man  cannot  say,  ‘ I will  compose  poetry.’ 
The  greatest  poet  even  cannot  say  it;  for  the 
mind  in  creation  is  as  a fading  coal,  which  some 
invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant  wind, 
awakens  to  transitory  brightness ; this  power 
arises  from  within,  like  the  colour  of  a flower 
which  fades  and  changes  as  it  is  developed,  and 
the  conscious  portions  of  our  natures  are  un- 
prophetic  either  of  its  approach  or  its  departure. 
Could  this  influence  be  durable  in  its  original 
purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible  to  predict  the 
greatness  of  the  results  ; but  when  composition 
begins,  inspiration  is  already  on  the  decline,  and 
the  most  glorious  poetry  that  has  ever  been 
communicated  to  the  world  is  probably  a feeble 
shadow  of  the  original  conception  of  the  poet.  I 
appeal  to  the  greatest  poets  of  the  present  day, 

69 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


whether  it  is  not  an  error  to  assert  that  the  finest 
passages  of  poetry  are  produced  by  labour  and 
study.  The  toil  and  delay  recommended  by  critics, 
can  be  justly  interpreted  to  mean  no  more  than 
a careful  observation  of  the  inspired  moments, 
and  an  artificial  connexion  of  the  spaces  between 
their  suggestions  by  the  intertexture  of  conven- 
tional expressions  ; a necessity  only  imposed  by 
the  limitedness  of  the  poetical  faculty  itself,  for 
Milton  conceived  the  Pai^adise  Lost  as  a whole 
before  he  executed  it  in  portions.” 

This  passage,  true  in  spirit  as  it  is,  is  carried 
away  from  truth  by  reason  of  its  paidi  pris.  It 
contains  the  truth  glossed  into  untruth  in  a few 
important  sentences  by  the  choice  of  words  which 
imply  rather  than  openly  state  an  incorrect  appre- 
ciation of  the  processes  under  discussion.  The 
use  of  the  word  conventional^  when  Shelley  talks 
of  the  “artificial  connexion”  of  the  spaces  between 
the  suggestions  of  the  “inspired  moments,”  is 
enough  to  throw  the  reader  off  the  scent,  or 
rather  to  let  him  mistake  the  true  trail  for  a 
herring  drag,  and  therefore  to  desist  at  the  most 
promising  moment  of  his  pursuit. 

I am  not  unconscious  of  the  risk  I take  in 
describing  what  I believe  to  be  the  processes  of 
literary  creation.  I cannot  guard  myself  against 
another  honest  man  who  reads  me  with  surprise, 
calls  me  a liar,  and  proves  me  such  by  references 
to  the  methods  he  notices  are  his  own.  Such  a 

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SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

man  may  read  the  following  paragraph  and  smile  ; 
but  I ask  him,  before  he  gives  me  the  lie,  to 
examine  carefully  the  process  I describe,  and  to 
be  sure  that  he  is  not  quarrelling  with  me  for  the 
statement  of  his  own  belief  in  a language  other 
than  his. 

An  artist  is  about  to  make  a song.  It  does 
not  often  sing  itself  into  his  head,  worded  and 
tuned  as  he  will  write  it  down.  Nor  is  it  often 
present  to  his  mind  in  words  at  all.  It  is  more 
often  but  a nucleus — two  lines  of  poetry,  bur- 
dened with  an  invisible  body  that  the  artist  has 
to  find,  a tune  that  asks  for  words  or  for  its  own 
completion,  a presentiment  of  such  and  such  an 
invisible  burden  that  words  and  tune,  if  found, 
will  bring  into  the  light.  The  inferior  artist  is 
known  by  dead  masks  of  verse  that  do  not  fit  the 
unseen  faces  on  which  he  has  sought  to  mould, 
or  by  his  good  lines,  which  are  the  nuclei  of 
poems  he  has  not  known  how  to  write,  and,  set  in 
songs  that  are  not  tuned  to  them,  blossom  sadly 
like  real  roses  in  gardens  of  artificial  flowers. 

The  true  artist  is  he  who  is  able  to  make  the 
part  of  his  poem  indistinguishable  in  texture 
from  the  whole,  who  is  able  to  baffle  the  inquisi- 
tive reader  asking  which  lines  were  first  imagined, 
who  is  able,  that  is  to  say,  to  preserve  an  absolute 
unity  between  the  nucleus  and  its  elaboration. 
The  nucleus  may  itself  dictate  the  form  it  is  to 

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EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

fill,  like  the  fragment  of  a statue  implying  the 
missing  limbs,  when  the  poet’s  business  is  faith- 
fully to  follow  its  suggestion.  Or,  if  it  be  the 
presentiment  of  a whole,  it  will  teach  the  poet, 
who  is  humble  before  it,  with  what  delicacy  or 
coarseness  its  veins  are  to  be  patterned,  and  what 
the  texture  of  skin  that  its  personality  demands. 
Here,  it  is  clear,  is  no  question  of  an  intertexture 
of  conventional  expressions,  but  rather  the  spread- 
ing of  some  creeping  vitality,  sparkhke  and 
separate,  until,  at  last,  the  whole  material  break 
into  a flame.  Here,  however,  lies  the  truth  as 
well  as  the  untruth  of  Shelley’s  statement.  He 
interprets  the  toil  and  delay  recommended  by 
critics ” as  ‘‘a  careful  observation  of  the  inspired 
moments.”  And,  indeed,  the  making  of  a work 
of  art  asks  no  more  than  a tender  watchfulness 
over  the  original  intuition.  From  every  word 
the  artist’s  mind  flies  back  to  its  starting-point 
as  if  to  refer  each  note  to  an  infallible  tuning- 
fork.  One  artist  will  write  down  as  near  as  he 
can  the  whole  of  the  poem  that  is  in  the  making, 
and  then  go  over  it,  removing  all  that  contradicts 
the  rest.  A jigging  run  of  words  will  be  ordered 
to  a due  solemnity.  A stately  sentence  will  be 
made  to  trip  as  light  as  Ariel.  The  snowball 
meaning  of  a word — the  meaning  it  has  gathered 
in  its  progress  through  the  years — may  covertly 
deny  the  impression  it  is  meant  to  give : he  will 

72 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

erase  it  from  his  mind  or  paper  and  write  another 
less  refractory.  Thus  gradually  is  the  poem  per- 
fected, as  a boat’s  crew,  once  at  sixes  and  sevens, 
is  trained  to  work  in  powerful  unison.  Another 
artist,  who  can  better  trust  his  memory,  instead 
of  working  on  a whole,  will  perfect  line  by  line, 
conscious  of  all  in  writing  each,  so  that  when  all 
are  written  there  will  be  nothing  to  correct.  In 
either  case  the  mental  process,  and  its  object,  is 
the  same.  The  poet’s  ‘‘labour  and  study”  are 
devoted  to  a striving  for  unity  and  an  avoidance 
of  hindrance.  His  care  is,  that  the  delicate 
breath  of  the  original  nucleus  or  inspiration  may 
inspire  all,  and  move  as  freely  in  the  house  it  has 
built,  the  poet  helping,  as  in  the  scrap  of  wall,  or 
the  phantom  mansion,  that  was  at  first  its  sole 
possession  and  itself. 

Let  Shelley  appeal  to  Keats  among  “ the 
greatest  poets  of  the  present  day.”  Let  Keats 
betray  the  genesis  of  a passage  in  Hyperion, 
I take  my  example  from  Mr.  Buxton  Forman’s 
edition,  where  other  readings  than  the  final  are 
printed  below  the  page.  Lines  72-79  of  the 
poem  were  first  written  : 

“ As  when  upon  a tranced  summer-night 
Those  green-rob’d  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
The  Oaks  stand  charmed  by  the  earnest 
Stars : 

And  thus  all  night  without  a stir  they  rest 

73 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Save  for  one  sudden  momentary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence  and  dies  off 
As  if  the  Sea  of  Air  had  but  one  wave  ; 

So  came  these  words  and  went ; ” 

Keats’  corrections  of  this  text  sharpen  our  feeling 
for  ugliness  and  contradictory  rhythm,  and 
admirably  illustrate  the  process  of  composition  I 
have  just  described.  The  fourth  line  would 
suggest  to  any  one  that  it  needed  tuning.  They 
rest  ” see-saws  the  attention  rather  than  soothes  it. 
The  “ st  ” at  the  end  puzzlingly  doubles  that  of 
‘‘  gust  ” in  the  next  verse,  with  half  a suggestion 
of  rhyme.  He  substituted  remain.”  But  the 
third  line  also  needed  improvement.  ‘‘  The  oaks 
stand  charmed  ” was  a little  weak  and  became 
‘‘Tall  oaks  branch-charmed  ” leaving  the  verb 
over  for  the  next  line,  which,  either  before  this 
alteration  or  after  it,  disregarding  the  first  tenta- 
tive change,  was  rewritten  “ Dream  and  so  dream 
all  night  without  a stir.”  In  the  fifth  line,  “ sud- 
den momentary  ” though  easily  presenting  them- 
selves with  the  word  “ gust,”  falsified  the  image 
he  was  conveying.  He  avoided  the  staccato 
suggestion  of  “ momentary  ” by  writing  “ soli- 
tary,” and  for  “ sudden  ” he  substituted  “ gradual.” 
“ The  Sea  of  Air  ” is  a phrase,  either  ineffectual, 
or  combating  the  main  image  with  another  too 
definitely  stated.  He  wrote  “as  if  the  ebbing 
air,”  keeping  the  idea,  but  softening  its  impres- 

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SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

sion.  In  the  final  version  one  inspiration  is 
dominant  throughout,  and  all  contradiction  has 
been  cleared  away.  The  passage,  now  unalter- 
able poetry,  reads : 

As  when,  upon  a tranced  summer-night. 

Those  green-rob’d  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest 
stars. 

Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a stir. 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence  and  dies  off. 

As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave ; 

So  came  these  words  and  went ; ” 

Labour  and  study  have  had  their  value  here, 
and  their  efforts,  it  is  well  to  notice,  have  all 
been  in  one  direction,  unity,  the  unity  of  the 
passage  with  itself,  and,  though  that  would  be 
more  difficult  to  show  in  a couple  of  pages,  the 
unity  of  the  passage  with  the  whole  poem. 

There  is  then  a real  difference  between  con- 
ception and  craftsmanship.  Conception  is  that 
breath  on  the  glowing  coal  of  which  Shelley 
speaks,  and  craftsmanship  all  that  knowledge  that 
helps  the  artist  tenderly  watching  and  remember- 
ing that  moment  of  brilliance,  to  prevent  the 
intertexture  from  being  made  of  conventional 
expressions,  and,  indeed,  to  lead  the  glowing 
sparks  throughout  the  mass  until  the  whole  is 
kindled. 


75 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


When  we  write  of  self-conscious  technique  ” 
we  mean  this  process  carried  out  by  men  aware 
of  the  purpose  of  their  work.  Many  absolute 
and  unalterable  things  have  been  written  by  men 
without  this  knowledge,  guided  only  by  the 
memory  of  their  moments  of  inspiration,  in- 
tolerant, without  knowing  why,  of  words  and 
phrases  that  contradicted  them.  It  has  been  left 
for  writers  of  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years  to 
discover  what  they  and  their  ancestors  have  been 
doing,  and  so  to  hang  shining  lamps  over  the 
desks  of  other  artists.  Godwin’s  inverse  method 
of  writing  his  book  was  undertaken  for  the  sake 
of  the  intensity  of  the  interest  he  was  determined 
to  evoke.  He  knew  that  the  intensity  of  an 
impression  depended  on  its  unity.  His  technique 
was  rough,  but  it  showed  at  least  a general  under- 
standing of  the  principles  of  creation  that  have 
so  long  been  recognised  unstated.  Poe  went 
further  than  Godwin  and  demanded  that  story 
or  poem  should  be  one  throughout,  not  only  in 
framework  (the  object  of  Godwin’s  procedure) 
but  also  in  detail,  in  sentence  and  in  word. 

The  first  of  the  two  paragraphs  of  which  I 
spoke,  is  taken  from  an  essay  on  Hawthorne 
published  in  1842 : 

A skilful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a 
tale.  If  wise,  he  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts 
to  accommodate  his  incidents;  but  having  con- 

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SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

ceived,  with  deliberate  care,  a certain  unique  or 
single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents 
such  incidents — he  then  combines  such  events  as 
may  best  aid  him  in  establishing  this  preconceived 
effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend  not  to 
the  outbringing  of  this  effect,  he  has  failed  in  his 
first  step.  In  the  whole  composition  there  should 
be  no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency,  direct 
or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre-established 
design.  And  by  such  means,  with  such  care  and 
skill,  a picture  is  at  length  painted  which  leaves 
in  the  mind  of  him  who  contemplates  it  with  a 
kindred  art,  a sense  of  the  fullest  satisfaction. 
The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  presented  un- 
blemished, because  undisturbed.  ...” 

Poe  has  been  discussing  the  length  of  com- 
positions, and  goes  on  to  say  that  this  perfection 
is  unattainable  in  the  novel,  because  the  novel  is 
too  long  to  be  read  with  sustained  attention  at  a 
sitting.  That  question  need  not  trouble  us  here. 
We  have  only  to  notice  that  Poe’s  curse,  leading 
him  not  only  to  do  things  but  to  find  out  how 
they  are  done,  showed  him  that  his  care  in  writing 
and  re-writing  was  precisely  the  avoidance  of 
hindrance  and  contradiction,  the  tuning  of  the 
part  with  the  whole,  that  I have  already  tried 
to  describe.  The  initial  inspiration  is  to  rule, 
how  absolutely  this  second  paragraph  from  The 
Philosophy  of  Composition,  published  in  1846, 
informs  us.  There  is  a cheerful  arrogance  about 

77 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


this  paragraph  that  it  is  hard  not  to  respect.  Poe, 
conscious  of  his  own  consciousness,  is  a little 
drunk  with  free-will;  and  the  result  is  the 
momentary  vision  of  a calm-browed  person 
sitting  between  earth  and  heaven  weighing  and 
choosing  with  mathematical  precision  invisible 
and  imponderable  things. 

I prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration 
of  an  effect.  Keeping  originality  always  in  view 
— for  he  is  false  to  himself  who  ventures  to 
dispense  with  so  obvious  and  so  easily  attainable 
a source  of  interest — I say  to  myself,  in  the  first 
place — ‘Of  the  innumerable  effects,  or  impres- 
sions, of  which  the  heart,  the  intellect,  or  (more 
generally)  the  soul  is  susceptible,  what  one  shall 
1,  on  the  present  occasion,  select?’  Having 
chosen  a novel,  first,  and  secondly  a vivid  effect, 
I consider  whether  it  can  be  best  wrought  by 
incident  or  tone — whether  by  ordinary  incidents 
and  peculiar  tone,  or  the  converse,  or  by  peculi- 
arity both  of  incident  and  tone — afterward 
looking  about  me  (or  rather  within)  for  such 
combinations  of  event,  or  tone,  as  shall  best  aid 
me  in  the  construction  of  the  effect.” 

This  means  that  when  the  illusion  of  choice 
had  left  Poe  with  the  nucleus  for  a tale  or  poem, 
he  followed  it  with  careful  observation  instead  of 
dragging  inspiration  bound  and  captive  behind  a 
runaway  pen.  Whereas  men  not  self-conscious 
work  blindly,  and  are  themselves  surprised  by 

78 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

the  confused  effects  they  produce,  Poe  watched 
his  inspiration  for  guidance,  and  was  determined 
that  the  first  shadowing  of  the  effect  to  be 
constructed  ” should  rule  every  touch  he  laid 
upon  his  canvas.  It  is  easy  to  quarrel  with  the 
violence  of  his  statement,  as  with  Shelley’s  on 
the  other  side.  But,  in  reading  these  paragraphs, 
we  should  remember  not  only  that  Poe  is  trying 
to  carry  a point  but  also  that  it  is  hard  to  make 
new  principles  clear,  even  to  their  discoverer, 
without  throwing  a limelight  upon  them  that 
makes  their  shades  black,  and  their  whites  almost 
too  luminous.  When  Baudelaire  writes  of  him- 
self as  ‘‘un  esprit  qui  regarde  comme  le  plus 
grand  honneur  du  poete  d’accomplir  juste  ce 
qu’il  a projete  de  faire,”  we  find  the  same 
thoughts  similarly  exaggerated,  and  not  until 
nearly  fifty  years  after  Poe  do  we  get  them 
softened  by  the  gentler  light  of  day,  in  Pater’s 
essay  on  Style : 

To  give  the  phrase,  the  sentence,  the  struc- 
tural member,  the  entire  composition,  song,  or 
essay,  a similar  unity  with  its  subject  and  with 
itself : style  is  in  the^  right  way  when  it  tends 
towards  that.  All  depends  upon  the  original 
unity,  the  vital  wholeness  and  identity  of  the 
initiatory  apprehension  or  view.” 

It  is  easy  in  Poe’s  best  work,  for  we  must 
continually  throw  aside  what  was  written  hur- 

79 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


riedly,  for  bread,  too  hurriedly  to  allow  that 
watching  of  the  remembered  moment  which  he 
was  one  of  the  first  to  demand — it  is  easy  to 
trace  the  result  of  this  craftsmanship  conscious 
of  its  aims.  His  theory  brought  him  as  near 
perfection  as  his  nature  would  permit.  His 
stories  are  the  readiest  examples.  They,  the 
best  of  them,  are  one  with  themselves,  and  (so 
thorough  is  their  domination  by  the  idea)  their 
first  sentences  are  ordered  by  knowledge  of 
those  which  are  to  be  the  last.  Never,  except 
by  that  misfortune  of  his,  that  left  him  insensi- 
tive to  the  unpleasant  qualities  of  some  words 
and  phrases  which  the  long  habit  of  the  language 
has  taught  more  delicate  ears  to  find  discordant, 
does  he  break  for  a moment  the  spell  that  these 
carefully  prepared  beginnings  throw  upon  his 
readers.  ‘HI  accomplit  juste  ce  qu’il  a projete 
de  faire,”  to  adapt  Baudelaire’s  words,  and  his 
mastery  seldom  loosens  its  grasp.  In  the  less 
successful  works  among  those  by  which  he  was 
willing  to  be  known,  he  slackens  his  grip  by 
movements  of  awkward  laughter,  hangman’s 
jokes,  which  are  painful  to  those  who  admire  him 
in  his  strength.  But,  in  the  perfect  tales,  like 
The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death;  Silence : a Fable; 
or  The  Oval  Portrait,  there  is  not  a movement 
that  does  not  contribute  to  the  effect  of  the 
whole. 


80 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

Let  me  set  side  by  side  some  of  these  begin- 
nings and  endings.  The  Masque  of  the  Red 
Death  opens  thus : 

The  Red  Death  had  long  devastated  the 
country.  No  pestilence  had  ever  been  so  fatal, 
or  so  hideous.  Blood  was  its  avatar  and  its  seal 
— the  redness  and  the  horror  of  blood.  There 
were  sharp  pains,  and  sudden  dizziness,  and  then 
profuse  bleeding  at  the  pores,  with  dissolu- 
tion ...” 

It  ends : 

“ And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence 
of  the  Red  Death.  He  had  come  like  a thief 
in  the  night.  And  one  by  one  dropped  the  re- 
vellers in  the  blood-bedewed  hall  of  their  revel, 
and  died,  each  in  the  despairing  posture  of 
his  fall.  And  the  life  of  the  ebony  clock  went 
out  with  that  of  the  last  of  the  gay.  And  the 
flames  of  the  tripods  expired.  And  Darkness  and 
Decay  and  the  Red  Death  held  illimitable 
dominion  over  all.” 

We  are  led  on  through  gradually  increasing 
disquietude  and  terror.  How  menacing  is  the 
sentence  that  immediately  follows  the  prelude : 
‘‘  But  the  Prince  Prospero  was  happy  and 
dauntless  and  sagacious.”  We  feel  at  once  that 
the  shadow  of  death  is  at  his  elbow. 

Shadow : a Parable  strikes  at  once  the  knell 
that  is  to  close  it : 


81 


r 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


‘‘Ye  who  read  are  still  among  the  living ; but 
I who  write  shall  have  long  since  gone  my  way 
into  the  region  of  shadows.” 

This  solemn  note  is  reinforced  by  another  as 
the  tale  begins  : 

“ Over  some  flasks  of  the  red  Chian  wine, 
within  the  walls  of  a noble  hall  in  a dim  city 
called  Ptolemais,  we  sat  at  night,  a company  of 
seven.” 

And  finally  these  two  deep  monotones  bell 
forth  together : 

“ And  the  shadow  answered,  ‘ I am  Shadow, 
and  my  dwelling  is  near  to  the  Catacombs  of 
Ptolemais,  and  hard  by  those  dim  plains  of 
Delusion  which  border  upon  the  foul  Charonian 
canal.’  And  then  did  we,  the  seven,  start  from 
our  seats  in  horror,  and  stand  trembling,  and 
shuddering,  and  aghast : for  the  tones  in  the 
voice  of  the  shadow  were  not  the  tones  of  any 
one  being,  but  of  a multitude  of  beings,  and 
varying  in  their  cadences  from  syllable  to  syllable, 
fell  duskily  upon  our  ears  in  the  well-remembered 
and  familiar  accents  of  many  thousand  departed 
friends.” 

Silence : a Fable  has  a similar  double 

opening,  though  here  the  two  notes  sound 
together  at  the  beginning  and,  with  wonderful 
effect,  are  disentangled  at  the  end. 

Listen  to  mej  said  the  Demon,  as  he  placed 
82 


a i. 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

his  hand  upon  my  head.  ' The  region  of  which 
I speak  is  a dreary  region  in  Libya,  by  the  borders 
of  the  river  Zaire.  And  there  is  no  quiet  there, 
nor  silence. 

‘ The  waters  of  the  river  have  a saffron  and 
sickly  hue ; and  they  flow  not  onward  to  the 
sea,  but  palpitate  forever  and  forever  beneath  the 
red  eye  of  the  sun  with  a tumultuous  and  con- 
vulsive motion.  For  many  miles  on  either  side 
of  the  river’s  oozy  bed  is  a pale  desert  of  gigantic 
water-lilies.  They  sigh  one  unto  the  other  in 
that  solitude,  and  stretch  towards  the  heaven 
their  long  and  ghastly  necks,  and  nod  to  and 
fro  their  everlasting  heads.  And  there  is  an  in- 
distinct murmur  which  cometh  out  from  among 
them  like  the  rushing  of  sub-terrene  water.  And 
they  sigh  one  unto  the  other. 

“ ‘ But  there  is  a boundary  to  their  realm — 
the  boundary  of  the  dark,  horrible,  lofty  forest. 
There,  like  the  waves  about  the  Hebrides,  the 
low  underwood  is  agitated  continually.  But 
there  is  no  wind  throughout  the  heaven.  And 
the  tall  primeval  trees  rock  eternally  hither  and 
thither  with  a crashing  and  a mighty  sound. 
And  from  their  high  summits,  one  by  one,  drop 
everlasting  dews.  And  at  the  roots  strange 
poisonous  flowers  lie  writhing  in  perturbed 
slumber.  And  overhead,  with  a rustling  and 
loud  noise,  the  grey  clouds  rush  westwardly 
forever,  until  they  roll,  a cataract,  over  the  fiery 
wall  of  the  horizon.  But  there  is  no  wind 
throughout  the  heaven.  And  by  the  shores 
of  the  river  Zaire  there  is  neither  quiet  nor 
silence.’  ” 


83 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


It  is  worth  while  to  notice  in  this  the  careful, 
if  rather  elementary  music,  and  the  refrain 
“ And  there  is  no  quiet  there,  nor  silence  ” 
repeating  itself  with  gathered  emphasis  at  the 
end  of  the  description,  while  in  the  second  and 
third  paragraphs  are  internal  refrains : in  the 
second — ‘‘  They  sigh  one  unto  the  other  ” ; and 
in  the  third — But  there  is  no  wind  throughout 
the  heaven.” 

Then,  turning  to  the  end,  we  hear  the  two 
notes  separate.  The  Demon  is  finishing  his 
tale : 


^ And  mine  eyes  fell  upon  the  countenance 
of  the  man,  and  his  countenance  was  wan  with 
terror.  And,  hurriedly,  he  raised  his  head  from 
his  hand,  and  stood  forth  upon  the  rock  and 
listened.  But  there  was  no  voice  throughout  the 
vast  illimitable  desert,  and  the  characters  upon 
the  rock  were  Silence.  And  the  man  shud- 
dered and  turned  his  face  away,  and  fled  afar* 
off,  in  haste,  so  that  I beheld  him  no  more.’ 

‘‘Now  there  are  fine  tales  in  the  volumes  of 
the  Magi  — in  the  iron-bound,  melancholy 
volumes  of  the  Magi.  Therein,  1 say,  are 
glorious  histories  of  the  Heaven,  and  of  the 
Earth,  and  of  the  mighty  Sea — and  of  the  Genii 
that  overruled  the  sea,  and  the  earth,  and  the 
lofty  heaven.  There  was  much  lore  too  in  the 

84 


SELF-CONSCIOUS  TECHNIQUE 

sayings  which  were  said  by  the  Sibyls ; and  holy, 
holy  things  were  heard  of  old  by  the  dim  leaves 
that  trembled  around  Dodona — but,  as  Allah 
liveth,  that  fable  which  the  Demon  told  me,  as 
he  sat  by  my  side  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb,  I 
hold  to  be  the  most  wonderful  of  all ! And  as 
the  Demon  made  an  end  of  his  story,  he  fell 
back^within  the  cavity  of  the  tomb  and  laughed. 
And  I could  not  laugh  with  the  Demon,  and  he 
cursed  me  because  I could  not  laugh.  And  the 
lynx,  which  dwelleth  for  ever  in  the  tomb, 
came  out  therefrom,  and  lay  down  at  the  feet 
of  the  Demon,  and  looked  at  him  steadily  in  the 
face.” 

How  admirably  justified  is  the  introduction 
of  the  lynx.  So  true  is  the  note  that  I should 
not  be  surprised  if  nine  readers  out  of  ten  never 
observe  that  the  existence  of  the  beast  has  not 
been  mentioned  before.  The  whole  image  is  a 
fine  example  of  daring  trust  in  the  one  infallible 
test,  of  unity  with  the  original  inspiration. 


85 


TALES 


TALES 


IN  talking  of  the  material  of  a work  of  art,  we 
must  not  forget  that  we  are  only  speaking  in  an 
inaccurate  way  of  the  personality  of  the  artist. 
It  is  vain  to  hope  for  an  understanding  of  the 
art  of  pottery  from  an  analysis  of  the  clay  the 
potter  uses.  It  would,  however,  be  instructive 
to  note  how  this  and  that  material  influenced 
the  shapes  that  could  be  turned  from  it  upon  his 
wheel.  W e should  find  that  we  were  approaching 
a geographical  knowledge  ; learning  that  such 
and  such  districts  produce  such  and  such  forms  of 
pottery,  and,  conversely,  that  from  a specimen  of 
ware  we  could  more  or  less  inexactly  guess  some  of 
the  characteristics  of  the  country  whence  it  came. 
A similar  knowledge  can  be  won  from  an  exami- 
nation of  the  material  of  works  of  art.  They 
were  built,  we  can  say,  from  this  or  that  species 
of  impressions ; they  flowered  from  this  or  that 
intellectual  subsoil. 

But  not  all  the  tales  and  poems  of  a man  be- 
long truly  to  his  nature.  Here  and  there  he  has 
gathered  a handful  of  earth  from  countries  not 

89 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


his  own,  and,  in  these  shallow  beds  he  has  grown 
flowers  that  spring  the  quicker  for  their  lack  of 
root,  and  only  betray  the  weakness  of  their  soil 
by  dying  as  they  open  to  the  sun.  Here  our 
criterion  must  be  the  works  of  art  rather  than 
their  material,  and  we  must  rely  upon  our  taste 
to  distinguish  dead  flow^ers  from  living,  native 
intuitions  from  arbitrary  specimens  of  acclima- 
tisation. This  is  markedly  the  case  with  Poe, 
whose  will  frequently  chose  an  “ effect  ” foreign 
to  his  genius,  and  then  tried  to  whip  up  impres- 
sions to  produce  it.  Again  and  again  in  the 
stories  so  inspired  we  can  detect  moments  of 
strange  vitality,  the  lingering  looks  of  the  spirit 
toward  its  own  and  peculiar  province  of  impres- 
sion. 

That  province  was  not  the  wide  and  various 
territory  of  a Balzac,  but  rather  a small  grove 
closed  in  by  tall  trees,  filled  always  with  dusk. 
The  ground  must  be  trodden  warily  for  fear  of 
open  graves.  Here  and  there  are  fallen  tomb- 
stones, and,  in  the  twilight,  strange  flowers  rise 
from  between  them,  like  those  fierce  irises  whose 
orange  fiery  tongues  creep  out  on  lips  veined 
terribly  with  white  and  purple.  The  faces  of 
the  ghosts  that  walk  here  are  twisted  with  pain 
or  fear.  No  priest  has  exorcised  them,  and  their 
mortal  bodies  have  not  had  Christian  burial. 

From  this  narrow  grove  Poe  brought  the 

90 


TALE;S 

strange  tales  by  which  he  is  most  widely  remem- 
bered, and  here  his  spirit  had  its  home  when  it 
was  not  wandering  clear-eyed  and  critical  about 
a more  ordinary  world.  When,  as  Poe  would 
have  put  it,  he  left  his  intellect  for  his  soul,  he 
found  it  here,  aloof  indeed  from  the  arena 
of  his  purely  intellectual  activities.  Many 
things,  however,  called  him  elsewhere,  and,  in 
the  stories  that  resulted  from  his  wanderings^,  it 
is  interesting  to  trace  those  flashes  of  homesick- 
ness in  which  he  remembers  himself. 

Poe,  the  critic,  admired  the  skill  of  Defoe  in 
giving  verisimilitude  to  fiction.  We  have  read 
in  the  chapter  on  his  criticism  the  note  in 
which  he  described  the  effect  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
He  wished  to  produce  such  an  effect  with  tales 
of  his  own  writing.  The  Adventui^es  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym  and  the  Journal  of  Julius 
Rodman  written  two  years  later,  represent  un- 
finished attempts  to  create  new  Crusoes.  The 
fact  that  they  are  without  ends  is  itself  sugges- 
tive. In  reading  them  it  is  curious  to  watch 
Poe’s  genius  escaping  from  the  galley  where  he 
had  bound  his  cleverness  to  an  oar,  and  swiftly 
flying  to  the  remembered  place  of  strange  dreams 
and  sepulchral  imaginations.  The  style  of  Defoe, 
a paved  causeway,  swells  and  heaves,  glaucous 
coloured  grass  springs  up  through  the  interstices, 
and  flowers  hke  drops  of  blood,  while  the  plain 

91 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


stones  are  covered  with  a variegated  fungus. 
Poe  begins : 

‘‘  My  name  is  Arthur  Gordon  Pym.  My 
father  was  a respectable  trader  in  sea-stores  at 
Nantucket,  where  I was  born.  My  maternal 
grandfather  was  an  attorney  in  good  practice.  . . .” 

and,  parodying  not  too  accurately  the  style  of 
Robinson,  goes  on  with  accounts  of  shipwreck 
and  mutiny  and  voyages  to  undiscovered  lands. 
But  presently  the  style  changes.  A ship  like 
The  Flying  Dutchman  sails  by  and  disappears. 
Saffron-coloured  corpses  lie  upon  her  decks  and 
lean  upon  her  bulwarks,  and,  as  she  passes,  a 
huge  sea-gull,  spattered  with  blood,  draws  its 
beak  and  talons  from  the  body  where  it  feasts, 
and,  flying  over  the  heads  of  Pym  and  his  com- 
panion, drops  at  their  feet  ‘‘a  piece  of  clotted 
and  liver-like  substance.”  After  which  Poe 
turns  again  to  his  longitudes  and  latitudes, 
succeeding  very  fairly  well  in  making  the  veri- 
similitude he  desired.  But,  by  the  time  the 
book  breaks  off,  Pym’s  adventures  are  tuned  to 
a pitch  beyond  credibility.  Pym  and  his  com- 
panion in  a small  boat  sail,  under  clouds  of  white 
ashes,  over  a milky  ocean,  too  hot  to  be  endured 
by  the  naked  hand,  towards  a silent  cataract  that 
curtains  the  horizon. 

‘‘  At  intervals  there  were  visible  in  it  wide, 

92 


TALES 


yawning,  but  momentary  rents,  and  from  out 
these  rents,  within  which  was  a chaos  of  flitting 
and  indistinct  images,  there  came  rushing  and 
mighty  but  soundless  winds,  tearing  up  the  en- 
kindled ocean  in  their  course.  . . . And  now  we 
rushed  into  the  embraces  of  the  cataract,  where 
a chasm  threw  itself  open  to  receive  us.  But 
there  arose  in  our  pathway  a shrouded  human 
figure,  very  far  larger  in  its  proportions  than 
any  dweller  among  men.  And  the  hue  of  the 
skin  of  the  figure  was  of  the  perfect  whiteness 
of  the  snow.” 

It  was  almost  inevitable  that  Pym  should  die 
and  his  manuscript  be  lost,  for  a reconciliation 
between  Defoe  and  his  imitator  was  no  longer 
possible. 

The  Journal  of  Julius  Rodman  is  more  con- 
sistent in  tone.  It  purports  to  be  the  revised 
notes  of  the  first  man  who  crossed  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  There  are  in  it  encounters  with 
Indians,  described  like  those  of  Robinson  with 
his  savages,  and  it  breaks  off  after  a battle  with 
a couple  of  bears  chronicled  more  seriously  than 
the  piece  of  sport  shown  by  Man  Friday  with  his 
grizzly.  Poe  loads  his  narrative  with  detailed 
catalogues  of  food  and  arms  in  the  approved 
manner,  but  gave  himself  a narrow  safety-valve 
by  making  Rodman  sensitive  to  nature  and  an 
exuberant  describer  of  landscape,  which,  in 
Defoe’s  time,  had  not  yet  begun  to  exist,  except 

93 


EDGATl  ALLAN  POE 


as  something  difficult  or  easy  to  traverse.  Poe  s 
intention  is  shown  in  such  sentences  as  this : 

My  father  had  been  very  fond  of  Pierre,  and 
I thought  a great  deal  of  him  myself ; he  was 
a great  favourite,  too,  with  my  younger  sister, 
Jane,  and  I believe  they  would  have  been 
married  had  it  been  God  s will  to  have  spared 
her.” 

The  fact  that  it  was  foreign  to  his  nature  is 
betrayed  in  such  as  this : 

‘‘  The  two  rivers  presented  the  most  enchanting 
appearance  as  they  wound  away  their  long  snake- 
like lengths  in  the  distance,  growing  thinner  and 
thinner  until  they  looked  like  mere  faint  threads 
of  silver  as  they  vanished  in  the  shadowy  mists 
of  the  sky.” 

I find  a very  characteristic  sign  of  the  intel- 
lectual character  of  Poe’s  invention  in  his 
description  of  Rodman’s  appearance : 

‘‘  He  was  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  when 
he  started  up  the  river.  He  was  a remarkably 
vigorous  and  active  man,  but  short  in  stature, 
not  being  more  than  five  feet  three  or  four  inches 
high — strongly  built,  with  legs  somewhat  bowed. 
His  physiognomy  was  of  a Jewish  cast,  his  lips 
thin,  and  his  complexion  saturnine.” 

Rodman’s  task  was  to  take  his  men  over  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  as  Hannibal  had  led  his  Car- 

94 


TALES 


thaginians  over  the  Alps.  He  had  to  be  a 
leader.  Few  but  Poe  would  have  thought  of 
sketching  him  in  the  lines  of  the  popular  imagi- 
nation of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

Poe’s  attempts  at  verisimilitude  contain  occa- 
sional flashes  of  himself.  He  appears  more 
rarely  in  those  tales  in  which,  instead  of  aping  an 
eighteenth- century  Defoe,  he  masquerades  as  a 
nineteenth- century  humorist.  His  conception 
of  humour  was  not  elementary.  There  is  no 
round  Rabelaisian  laughter  in  him  at  the  con- 
trast between  man  the  animal  and  man  the  God. 
Nor  does  he,  with  Shakespeare,  see  big,  boy-like 
men  playing  like  children  in  a serious  world,  or 
taking  a laughable  one  with  gravity.  There  is 
no  fat  or  juice  in  Poe’s  amusement.  His  sense 
of  the  ridiculous  is  lean  and  pinched,  and  moves 
pity  rather  than  laughter  in  his  readers.  It  is 
the  humour  of  a hungry  man  who  is  a little 
angry.  He  laughs  in  a falsetto  and  the  world 
will  not  join  in  the  chorus.  Some  schoolmasters 
make  jokes  like  his,  jokes  that  to  their  pupils  do 
but  deepen  the  monotony  they  are  intended  to 
relieve.  When,  in  a tragic  story,  Poe  introduces 
a scrap  of  would-be  ridicule,  we  have  to  pass  it 
over  with  forgiveness  instead  of  relishing  it  like 
the  humour  in  Shakespeare’s  solemn  plays.  It 
does  not  fill  out  his  conception  to  the  broad  pro- 
portions of  humanity,  but  is  a blemish  upon  it, 

95 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

an  excrescence  that  we  would  be  glad  to  do  with- 
out. And  when,  in  his  mad  confidence  that  the 
discrepancies  he  saw  were  as  amusing  to  others 
as  to  his  own  serious  mind,  he  wrote  whole  tales 
of  nothing  else,  he  found  that  the  laughter 
evaporated  as  he  wrote,  and  that  he  had  to  over- 
emphasise all  his  points  to  get  any  effect  at  all. 
Small  things  amuse  big  minds  of  a peculiar 
species.  I believe  Poe  often  laughed  at  the  gro- 
tesque ideas  and  bad  puns  that  he,  or  any  one 
else,  oould  easily  invent.  I believe  he  was  really 
amused  by  the  long-drawn-out  witticisms  that 
seem  to  us  so  dull.  I cannot  otherwise  under- 
stand how  he  could  print  them  not  only  in 
magazines  that  paid  for  them,  but  also  in  books 
that  did  not  and  were  not  likely  to  bring  him 
any  money.  His  case  suggests  that  it  might  be 
possible  to  reason  that  humorists  are  men  with 
a sluggish  sense  of  humour.  The  incidents  or 
ideas  that  make  them  laugh  are  laughable  indeed, 
whereas  the  thinnest  little  ghost  of  a pale  joke 
will  shake  the  sides  of  those  who,  like  Poe,  are 
unable  to  compel  others  to  share  their  enjoy- 
ment. Perhaps,  instead  of  saying  of  some 
ridiculous  occurrence  that  it  would  make  a cat 
laugh,  we  should  be  more  truly  praising  it  in 
exclaiming  that  it  would  make  Charles  Dickens 
smile.  It  might  be  possible  to  argue  so.  Who 
but  one  with  very  active  muscles  of  laughter 

96 


TALES 


could  smile,  unless  with  sorrow,  at  the  Court 
Guide  in  King  Pest  ? 

“ The  other  exalted  personages  whom  you  be- 
hold are  all  of  our  family,  and  wear  the  insignia 
of  the  blood  royal  under  the  respective  titles  of 
‘His  Grace  the  Arch- Duke  Pest-Iferous,’  ‘His 
Grace  the  Duke  Pest-llential,’  ‘ His  Grace  the 
Duke  Tem-Pest,’  and  ‘ Her  Serene  Highness  the 
Arch-Duchess  Ana-Pest.’  ” 

We  have  been  spoiled  by  the  great  masters  of 
humour,  and  our  pampered  minds  can  find 
nothing  funny  in  such  simple  jests  as  these.  Yet 
Poe  filled  a volume  with  such  stuff.  Sir  Path- 
rick  O’Grandison  Barranitt  tells,  in  the  style  of 
Charles  O’Malley,  of  an  incident  in  his  rivalry 
with  a little  Frenchman,  and  we  remain  hope- 
lessly solemn.  The  Angel  of  the  Odd  talks  like 
Hans  Breitmann,  and  we  do  not  smile.  The 
printer’s  devil  substitutes  “x’s”  for  “o’s”  in  a 
paragraph,  and  when  he  tells  us  that  it  made  some- 
body “x(cross)  in  the  x-treme,”  we  are  more 
sad  than  merry. 

Yet,  even  in  these  tales  of  dead  laughter  and 
demands  for  smiles  that  do  not  come,  Poe  some- 
times touches  his  own  note,  and  the  withered 
second-rate  jester  suddenly  rises  in  stature,  and 
the  empty  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  disappear  into 
cavernous  and  impressive  hollows.  Even  in 
King  Pest,  with  its  annoying  verbal  witticisms, 

97  G 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

is  a paragraph  in  which  Poe  comes  to  his 
own : 

Had  they  not,  indeed,  been  intoxicated  be- 
yond moral  sense,  their  reeling  footsteps  must 
have  been  palsied  by  the  horrors  of  their  situa- 
tion. The  air  was  cold  and  misty.  The  paving- 
stones,  loosened  from  their  beds,  lay  in  wild  con- 
fusion amid  the  tall  rank  grass  which  sprang  up 
around  the  feet  and  ankles.  Fallen  houses 
choked  up  the  streets.  The  most  fetid  and 
poisonous  smells  everywhere  prevailed  ; and  by 
the  aid  of  that  ghastly  light  which,  even  at  mid- 
night, never  fails  to  emanate  from  a vapoury  and 
pestilential  atmosphere,  might  be  discerned  lying 
in  the  by-paths  and  alleys,  or  rotting  in  the 
windowless  habitations,  the  carcase  of  many  a 
nocturnal  plunderer  arrested  by  the  hand  of  the 
plague  in  the  very  perpetration  of  his  robbery.” 

Poe  seems  to  have  been  unable  to  leave  his 
admirations  to  themselves.  He  was  always 
tempted  to  turn  them  into  emulations,  and  it 
was  almost  always  through  some  delight  of  his 
critical  mind  that  he  was  led  to  the  attempting 
of  tasks  foreign  to  his  genius.  Just  as  his  under- 
standing of  the  excellence  of  Defoe  made  him 
eager  to  imitate  the  master  whose  secret  he  per- 
ceived, so  his  pleasure  in  the  discoveries  of  science, 
the  pleasure  of  the  amateur,  of  the  uninitiated, 
made  him  desirous  of  using  it  in  his  own  way, 
and,  as  an  artist,  of  carrying  further  the  marvels 

98 


TALES 


whose  existence  had  beeii  proved  by  the  pro- 
fessors. Critic  and  metaphysician  as  he  was,  I 
think  that  at  some  moments  of  his  career  he 
w^ould  readily  have  flung  away  these  titles,  like 
those  of  poet  and  storyteller,  if  he  could  have 
been  given  instead  of  them  the  name  of  a scien- 
tific discoverer.  There  are  many  indications  in 
his  scientific  tales  that  he  plumes  himself  as  much 
on  his  knowledge  and  conjecture  as  on  the  tales 
in  which  they  are  turned  to  account.  He  learnt 
what  science  he  knew  from  popular  works,  but 
was  certainly  able,  on  these  not  very  deep  foun- 
dations, to  raise  quite  ingenious  edifices  of  specu- 
lation. In  Hans  Pfaall,  for  example,  he 
anticipates  Jules  Verne,  and  describes  a voyage 
to  the  moon,  whose  plausibility,  however,  is  a 
little  lessened  by  the  tone  of  banter  in  which 
parts  of  the  story  are  told.  He  lets  us  see  too 
clearly  that  he  is  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  and  at 
the  same  time  is  very  careful  in  securing  veri- 
similitude, and  apparent  submission'  to  the  laws 
of  science.  He  does  not  allow  Hans  Pfaall  to  fly 
to  the  moon,  in  the  free  and  easy  manner  of  the 
hero  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac’s  Voyage  auoc  Etats 
de  la  Lune,  for  his  interest  is  more  in  the  flight 
than  in  what  is  to  be  found  on  alighting,  which, 
in  fact,  never  gets  described.  Poe  busies  himself 
in  contriving  an  oxygen-making  apparatus  for 
turning  a rarefied  atmosphere  into  fit  stuff  for 

99 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


breathing.  He  makes  calculations  of  weights 
and  distances,  and  finds  pleasure  in  such  logical 
invention  as  sees  that  the  balloon  turns  round 
and  descends  bottom  downwards  to  the  moon, 
after  passing  the  point  at  which  the  lunar  attrac- 
tion exceeds  that  of  the  earth.  If  such  a voyage 
had  been  made,  Poe  would  have  been  eager  to 
point  out  that  he  had  foreseen  its  possibility,  and 
forecast  its  method.  In  another  story  he  describes 
the  crossing  of  the  Atlantic  by  airship.  This  was 
printed  as  truth  in  the  columns  of  a newspaper, 
and  did  indeed  deceive  many.  Here,  too,  he  is 
happy  with  calculations  and  deductions,  and  the 
same  kind  of  logical  invention  as  pleased  him  in 
Hans  PfaalL  Of  these  tales  the  most  consistent 
in  tone  is  The  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom,  which, 
although,  like  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum, 
empty  of  spiritual  significance,  yet  makes  an 
effect  tuned  more  closely  with  his  mind.  The 
measured  description  of  the  whirlpool  fitly 
prepares  the  reader  for  the  narrative  of  the  man 
who  has  been  sucked  into  its  depths,  and  we  are 
grateful  to  Poe  for  his  ingenious  piece  of  reason- 
ing about  the  respective  resistance  offered  by 
cylinders  and  other  bodies  swimming  in  a vortex, 
that,  at  the  last  moment,  is  sufficient  to  save  the 
unfortunate,  whose  hope  and  despair  we  have 
already  made  our  own. 

Among  these  scientific  dreams  and  imaginative 

100 


TALES 


projections  of  scientific  into  pictorial  and  concrete 
fact  are  two  stories  in  which  Poes  peculiar 
powers  are  more  easily  detected.  These  are : 
The  Facts  in  the  Case  of  M,  Voldemar  and 
Mesmeric  Revelation,  Both  are  tales  of  men 
preserved  beyond  death  by  mesmerism,  and 
talking,  as  it  were,  from  the  farther  side  of  the 
gulf.  Both  were  written  in  later  years,  and  are 
examples  of  the  work  of  the  metaphysician  whose 
work  we  shall  discuss  in  a later  chapter.  The 
first  is  the  more  physical  of  the  two  studies. 
Valdemar  is  mesmerised  when  on  the  point  of 
death,  and,  from  a mesmeric  trance,  signifies  to 
the  operator  the  stages  of  his  sinking  and  the 
moment  of  his  actual  dissolution.  For  seven 
months  he  is  preserved  under  the  mesmeric  in- 
fluence, while  his  body  does  not  decay,  and  all 
physical  processes  are  seemingly  arrested.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  is  awakened  by  the 
customary  passes.  He  cries  out  to  be  put  once 
more  to  sleep  or  to  be  finally  awakened.  The 
operator  tries  to  mesmerise  him  again,  but, 
failing  through  lack  of  will  power,  works  earnestly 
for  the  removal  of  the  spell. 

“ As  I rapidly  made  the  mesmeric  passes,  amid 
ejaculations  of  ‘dead  ! dead  ! ’ absolutely  bursting 
from  the  tongue  and  not  from  the  lips  of  the 
sufferer,  his  whole  frame  at  once — within  the 
space  of  a single  minute,  or  even  less — shrunk, 

101 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


/ 


crumbled — absolutely  I'otted  away  beneath  my 
hands.  Upon  the  bed,  before  that  whole  company, 
there  lay  a nearly  liquid  mass  of  loathsome — of 
detestable  putridity.’ 

Mesmeric  Revelation  reports  a conversation 
between  the  mesmerist  and  his  patient,  a philoso- 
pher who  believes  that  from  his  self- cognisance  in 
the  mesmeric  state  may  be  learnt  some  truth  that, 
in  an  ordinary  condition,  his  powers  of  reasoning 
would  not  be  so  acute  as  to  discover.  A series 
of  questions  bring  as  answers  some  of  the  ideas 
that  were  already  shaping  Poe’s  Eureka,  and  the 
tale  ends  with  the  philosopher’s  death. 

‘‘  As  the  sleep-walker  pronounced  these  latter 
words,  in  a feeble  tone,  I observed  in  his  coun- 
tenance a singular  expression,  which  somewhat 
alarmed  me  and  induced  me  to  wake  him  at  once. 
No  sooner  had  I done  this  than,  with  a bright 
smile  irradiating  all  his  features,  he  fell  back 
upon  his  pillow  and  expired.  1 noticed  that  in 
less  than  a minute  afterward  his  corpse  had  all 
the  stern  rigidity  of  stone.  His  brow  was  of  the 
coldness  of  ice.  Thus,  ordinarily,  should  it  have 
appeared  only  after  long  pressure  from  Azrael’s 
hand.  Had  the  sleep-walker,  indeed,  during  the 
latter  portion  of  his  discourse,  been  addressing 
me  from  out  the  region  of  the  shadows  ? ” 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

It  is  clear  in  all  these  stories,  less  expressions 
than  attempts  at  expression,  how  much  of  Poe’s 

102 


TALES 


work  as  an  artist  was  merely  illustrative  of  his 
adventures  as  a critic  and  thinker.  In  the  last 
two  are  indications  of  what  came  to  be  the  pre- 
vailing character  of  his  thought,  indications  which 
are  elsewhere  again  and  again  confirmed.  When 
Poe  was  not  thinking  of  beauty  he  was  thinking 
of  God,  and  so  of  death  ; and  much  of  his  thought 
on  God  and  beauty  came  to  be  associated  with 
death  when  he  allowed  it  to  appear  in  work  whose 
aim  was  aesthetic  rather  than  scientific.  The 
confusion  in  his  mind  between  beauty  and  melan- 
choly, death  being  taken  as  its  symbol,  caused 
one  of  the  flaws  in  his  theory  of  aesthetic,  one  of 
the  brambles  that  entangled  his  pursuit  of  truth. 
There  are  tears  of  beauty  and  tears  of  sorrow, 
and  Poe  did  not  distinguish  between  them. 
Artists  have  not  yet  got  so  far  as  thinkers  in 
freeing  their  souls  from  fettering  catalogues  of 
the  things  they  admire,  which  they  confound 
with  the  beautiful.  They  will  still  give  lists  of 
beautiful  things,  betraying  rather  the  colours  of 
their  temperaments  than  the  acuteness  of  their 
understandings.  Different  men  are  moved  to 
aesthetic  expression  by  different  things ; it  is 
hard  for  them  to  realise  that  beauty  is  not 
exclusively  the  possession  of  the  things  that 
make  expression,  and  so  beauty,  possible  to 
themselves.  Poe  passes  very  near  the  truth  in 
saying : 


103 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


“ When  indeed  men  speak  of  Beauty,  they 
mean  precisely  not  a quality,  as  is  supposed,  but 
an  effect ; they  refer,  in  short,  just  to  that  intense 
and  pure  elevation  of  soul — not  of  intellect  or  of 
heart — upon  which  I have  commented,  and  which 
is  experienced  in  consequence  of  contemplating 
‘ the  beautiful.’  ” 

There  is  a taper  of  illumination  in  that  sen- 
tence. It  flickers  when  he  writes : 

‘‘  Beauty  of  whatever  kind,  in  its  supreme 
development,  invariably  excites  the  sensitive  soul 
to  tears.  Melancholy  then  is  the  most  legitimate 
of  all  the  poetical  tones.” 

It  dies  absolutely  when  he  continues : 

‘‘  Now,  never  losing  sight  of  the  object, 
supremeness,  or  perfection,  at  all  points,  I asked 
myself,  ‘ Of  all  melancholy  topics,  what,  accord- 
ing to  the  univei'sal  understanding  of  mankind, 
is  the  most  melancholy  ? ’ ‘ Death,’  was  the 

obvious  reply.  ^ And  when,’  I said,  ‘ is  this  most 
melancholy  of  topics  most  poetical?’  From 
what  I have  already  explained  at  some  length, 
the  answer  here  also  is  obvious — ‘ When  it  most 
closely  allies  itself  to  Beauty'  The  death,  then, 
of  a beautiful  woman  is,  unquestionably,  the 
most  poetical  topic  in  the  world — and  equally 
is  it  beyond  doubt  that  the  lips  best  suited  for 
such  a topic  are  those  of  a bereaved  lover.” 

There  the  light  is  dead,  and  Poe  only  tells 
us  that  he  is  a melancholy  man  who  is  easiest 

104 


T A 1.  E S 


prompted  to  aesthetic  expression  by  the  emotions 
belonging  to  death  and  bereavement. 

Robert  Burton,  in  the  Anatomy  of  Melan- 
choly^ writes  of  Phantasie  or  Imagination, 
“ whose  organ  is  the  middle  cell  of  the  brain,” 
that,  “in  melancholy  men  this  faculty  is  most 
powerful  and  strong,  and  often  hurts,  producing 
many  monstrous  and  prodigious  things,  especially 
if  it  be  stirred  up  by  some  terrible  object  pre- 
sented to  it  from  common  sense  or  memory.” 
Monstrous  and  prodigious  things  did  this  man 
produce,  whose  brain  sought  a white  light  and  a 
rarefied  air  in  which  to  think,  while  his  tempera- 
ment dragged  it  back  continually  to  graveyard 
mists  and  that  grove  of  purple,  poisonous  flowers. 
Setting  on  one  side  the  analytical  tales,  which 
are  a subject  for  separate  discussion,  we  may 
note  that  almost  all  the  best  of  his  remaining 
stories,  in  which  his  inspiration  is  not  turned  to 
invention  by  the  arbitrary  interference  and  in- 
tention of  his  will,  are  concerned  directly  or 
indirectly  with  the  idea  of  death.  They  are 
variations  on  a Funeral  March,  played  now 
almost  silently  with  muffled  notes,  now  with 
reverberating  thunder,  now  in  a capricious  stac- 
cato, now  with  the  jangling  of  madness,  the 
notes  tripping  each  other  up  as  they  rush 
along,  and  now  so  slowly  that  the  breath  of  his 
listeners  waits  for  suffocation  in  their  throats  in 

105 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


expectation  of  the  phrases  that  are  continually 
postponed. 

But  death  is  the  catastrophe  of  many  stories 
beside  Poe’s.  It  is  a bulky  incident  in  life,  and 
consequently  one  that  readily  offers  itself  for  the 
purposes  of  art.  Poe,  however,  was  peculiar  in 
his  use  of  it.  He  does  not  watch  a death-bed 
and  make  notes  of  the  humanity  of  the  patient. 
He  does  not  make  us  feel  the  painful  emotions 
of  the  men  and  women  who  see  their  friend 
irrevocably  departing  from  them.  There  is  no 
irony,  no  sadness,  no  setting  of  familiar  things  in 
the  light  that  in  death’s  presence  seems  to  pierce 
the  curtain  that  divides  those  who  have  gone 
from  those  who,  busying  themselves  with  irrele- 
vant things,  are  waiting  to  go  in  their  turn. 
Most  writers  seek  in  death  an  enhancement  of 
the  value  of  life,  and  find  in  mortality  a means  of 
elucidating  humanity.  Death  with  them  is  a 
significant  moment  of  life.  Death  with  Poe  is 
Death.  The  metaphysician  is  obsessed  by  it  as 
the  point  where  simple  calculations  slip  through 
into  the  fourth  dimension.  The  artist  is  con- 
cerned with  death  as  something  separate  from 
life,  something  whose  circumstances  are  special 
and  terrible. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  horror  of  Poe’s  tales 
of  death  is  purely  physical.  A quality  more 
universally  theirs  is  that  of  peculiarity  of  circum- 

106 


TALES 


stance.  'Fhe  people  who  die,  or  have  killed,  or 
are  about  to  die,  are  unusual,  and  the  manners 
of  the  deaths,  or  the  condition  of  mind  in  which 
they  are  prepared  for  them,  are  extraordinary. 
In  some  cases  the  death  is  no  physical  death,  but 
the  murder  of  half  a soul  by  its  fellow,  as  in  the 
tale  of  William  Wilson.  In  others  the  deaths 
are  those  of  reincarnated  spirits  {Morelia)  of 
madmen  (the  murderers  of  The  Tell-Tale  Heart 
and  The  Black  Cat)  or  of  souls  whose  bodies 
are  snatched  in  the  moment  of  dissolution  by 
spirits  who  have  already  left  the  earth  {Ligeia). 
Brooding  over  the  idea  of  death,  Poe  found  his 
way  into  other  corners  of  speculation,  and  the 
mere  fact  of  dying  became  clothed  for  him  with 
the  strangely  coloured  garments  of  the  weird. 

He  plays  none  of  the  witch  melody  that 
Hawthorne  knows.  Poe  is  interested  in  the 
conscience,  but  does  not  make  of  it  and  the  faith 
that  it  sometimes  implies  a background  to  throw 
up  into  relief  the  figures  that  dance  to  his  music. 
No  penalties  to  be  enacted  in  another  world 
heighten  the  importance  of  deeds  done  in  this. 
He  is  not,  except  as  a metaphysician,  concerned 
with  the  soul  after  death,  but  only  tunes  its 
progress  to  the  grave.  His  fingers  will  lift  no 
trumpet  on  the  day  of  a judgment  in  which  he 
does  not  believe.  His  interest  as  a story-teller  is 
with  the  terrors  of  the  soul  before  yet  it  has 

107 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


separated  from  the  body.  Let  it  wake  in  the 
coffin  and  beat  with  the  fingers  that  are  still  its 
own  upon  the  weighted  lid.  Poe  will  be  with  it 
in  its  agony.  Hawthorne,  thinking  of  Heaven 
and  Hell,  forgets  the  worms*  Poe  hears  them 
eating  through  the  rotten  wood. 

But  though  death  is  the  motive  that  runs 
through  them,  Poe’s  best  stories  are  not  concerned 
only  with  mortality.  He  parades  his  corpses  in 
the  dim  neutral  country  between  ordinary  life 
and  the  life  that  remains  uncharted  and  scarcely 
explored.  We  have  to  remember  in  reading 
him  that  the  geography  of  humanity  changes 
from  age  to  age,  and  that  when,  in  his  tales  of 
mesmerism,  for  example,  he  seems  to  be  moving 
in  districts  now  open  to  the  public,  those  districts 
when  he  wrote  were  no  less  shadowy  than  the 
world  beyond  the  horizon  to  the  dwellers  in  the 
caves.  In  Williavi  Wilson  he  is  using,  long 
before  Stevenson,  the  idea  of  dual  personality. 
In  The  Oval  Portrait^  where  a painter  transfers 
the  very  soul  of  his  lady  to  the  canvas,  and,  as 
the  portrait  seems  to  breathe  alive,  turns  round 
to  find  her  dead,  he  is  using  the  subtle,  half- 
thought things  that  an  earlier  writer  would 
scarcely  have  felt,  or,  if  he  had,  would  have 
brushed  like  cobwebs  secretly  aside.  Then  there 
is  the  Germanesque  story  of  the  horse  whose  soul 
is  a man  and  carries  that  man’s  enemy  headlong 

108 


TALES 


into  a flaming  castle.  The  Assignation  is  an 
objective  piece  of  colour.  The  Black  Cat  and 
llie  Tell-Tale  Heart  are  stories  of  murder 
and  its  discovery,  threaded  with  hitherto  un- 
imagined varieties  of  madness.  The  note  common 
to  all  is  that  of  the  weird,  and  Poe  keeps  warily 
along  the  narrow  strip  of  country  that  is  neither 
frankly  supernatural,  nor  yet  prosaic  enough  to  c- 
be  commonplace. 

The  effect  of  the  weird  is  not  very  old  in  story- 
telling, though  the  terrible  and  the  monstrous 
have  long  been  motives  of  narrative.  Its  appear- 
ance is  almost  synchronous  with  the  eighteenth- 
century  birth  of  the  Romantic  movement.  Its 
first  thrill  has  been  traced  to  a passage  in  one 
of  Smollett’s  novels.  It  does  not  necessarily  use 
the  supernatural,  although  it  perhaps  implies  an 
appeal  to  those  half-forgotten  states  of  mind 
that  would  once  have  so  considered  the  details 
that  stimulate  it.  It  is  possible  that  for  the 
weird,  as  for  many  other  romantic  effects,  like 
those  of  the  clash  of  sword  and  of  the  hunting  of 
beasts,  our  ancestors  thrill  within  us,  and  com- 
municate their  shudders  to  ourselves.  It  is  worth 
while,  in  thinking  of  Poe’s  use  of  it,  to  consider 
its  short  history  in  art.  Our  attitude  towards  the 
weird  or  the  fantastic,  with  which  it  is  closely 
allied,  defined  itself  with  some  rapidity.  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  when  she  secured  a weird  effect  by  the 

109 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


lighting  of  blue  flames  on  the  points  of  the 
soldiers’ lances  before  the  Castle  of  Udolpho,  was 
careful  to  write  in  a footnote : “ See  the  Abbe 
Berthelon  on  Electricity.”  Miracles  were  already 
powerless  before  the  Royal  Society,  and  whereas, 
not  half  a century  before,  Horace  Walpole  had 
lifted  his  giant  warrior  to  heaven  in  a clap  of 
thunder,  a writer  in  the  later  day  would  have 
been  careful  to  show  the  wires  and  pulleys  that 
hoisted  the  monster  to  the  skies.  Mrs.  Radcliffe, 
eager  to  serve  two  gods,  gave  us  our  thrill 
and  our  electricity  together.  Her  fictions,  clever 
as  they  are,  are  a little  laughable  on  that  account, 
and  when  Poe  executes  a marvel  and  explains  it, 
as  in  Thou  art  the  Man!  he  drops  his  story 
into  a class  below  that  of  his  best  work.  But 
with  the  later  Romantics  came  a clearer  under- 
standing. Theophile  Gautier,  in  an  essay  on 
Hoffmann,  says,  in  praising  him : 

‘‘Besides,  Hoffmann’s  marvellous  is  not  the 
marvellous  of  the  fairy  tales : he  has  always  one 
foot  in  the  real  world,  and  one  does  not  see 
much  in  him  of  carbuncle  palaces  with  diamond 
turrets.  The  talismans  and  wonders  of  The 
Arabian  Nights  are  of  no  use  to  him.  Occult 
sympathies  and  dislikes,  peculiar  manias,  visions, 
magnetism,  the  mysterious  and  malevolent  in- 
fluence of  an  evil  principle  that  he  only  vaguely 
suggests,  these  are  the  supernatural  and  extra- 
ordinary elements  that  Hoffmann  is  accustomed 

110 


TALES 

to  use.  This  is  the  positive  and  the  plausible  of 
the  fantastic.” 

He  might  almost  be  writing  of  Poe.  Even  so, 
he  does  not  dig  at  the  root  of  the  question,  but 
only  at  the  loose  soil  about  its  trunk.  For  there 
is  no  untruth  in  fairy  tale  so  long  as  we  can  be 
made  to  believe  in  it  and  do  not  require  to  have 
it  reduced  to  terms  of  the  Abbe  Berthelon.  It 
was  left  to  another  Romantic  to  make  a philo- 
sophical statement  of  the  difficulty.  We  re- 
member with  Teufelsdrockh : 

The  potency  of  Names ; which  indeed  are 
but  one  kind  of  such  Custom-woven,  wonder- 
hiding Garments.  Witchcraft,  and  all  manner 
of  Spectre-work  and  Demonology,  we  have 
now  named  Madness  and  Diseases  of  the 
Nerves.  Seldom  reflecting  that  still  the  new 
question  comes  upon  us : What  is  Madness, 
what  are  Nerves  ? Ever,  as  before,  does  Madness 
remain  a mysterious-terrific  altogether  infernal 
boiling  up  of  the  Nether  Chaotic  Deep,  through 
this  fair-painted  Vision  of  Creation  which  swims 
thereon,  which  we  name  the  Real.  Was 
Luther’s  picture  of  the  Devil  less  a Reality, 
whether  it  were  framed  within  the  bodily  eye,  or 
without  it  ? In  every  the  wisest  Soul  lies  a 
whole  world  of  internal  Madness,  an  authentic 
Demon-Empire  ; out  of  which,  indeed,  his  world 
of  Wisdom  has  been  creatively  built  together, 
and  now  rests  there,  as  on  its  dark  foundations 
does  a habitable  flowery  Earth  rind.” 

Ill 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Truth  is  so  variable  except  in  its  relation  to 
the  soul.  The  facts  of  physical  science  turn  into 
butterflies  and  elude  us  as  we  grasp  them.  The 
Demon-Empire  is  all-powerful  as  soon  as  we 
believe  in  it,  and  to  do  that  we  must  be  moved 
by  one  who  has  been  himself  under  its  sway. 
The  priests  of  the  weird  do  not  enjoy  the  even 
life  of  other  men.  A few,  like  Gautier,  have 
visited  the  temple  sometimes,  and  escaped  before 
its  curse  has  fallen  on  them.  But  Gerard  de 
Nerval  hanged  himself  with  a bootlace,  that 
may  have  been  the  Queen  of  Sheba’s  garter,  to  a 
lodging-house  door  in  a back  street  of  a Paris 
that  may  have  been  Baghdad.  Hoffmann  lay  in 
bed  petrifying  from  his  feet  up  in  expiation  of 
those  nights  in  the  tavern  where,  in  the  fumes  of 
beer  and  smoke,  he  saw  Krespel  dancing  with  the 
crape  in  his  hat,  and  the  floating  shadows  of 
Callot’s  grotesques,  that  seemed  inextricably 
related  to  his  own.  Poe’s  death,  as  wretched  as 
either  of  these,  has  already  been  described. 
They  are  men  who  have  submitted  to  “ les  Bien- 
faits  de  la  Lune.”  The  weird  is  that  strange 
child  to  whom  Baudelaire  overheard  the  Moon 
speaking : 

‘‘  Tu  seras  la  reine  des  hommes  aux  yeux  verts 
dont  j’ai  serre  aussi  la  gorge  dans  mes  caresses 
nocturnes  ; de  ceux-la  qui  aiment  la  mer,  la  mer 
immense,  tumultueuse  et  verte,  I’eau  informe  et 

112 


TALES 


multiforme,  le  lieu  ou  ils  ne  sont  pas,  la  femme 
qu’ils  ne  connaissent  pas,  les  fleurs  sinistres  qui 
ressemblent  aux  encensoirs  dune  religion  incon- 
nue,  les  parfums  qui  troublent  la  volont^,  et  les 
animaux  sauvages  et  voluptueux  qui  sont  les 
emblemes  de  leur  folie.” 

Poe  was  one  of  these,  and  that  fact  is  the 
secret  of  his  power.  He  would  reverse  Gautier’s 
confession,  and  write  it : “I  love  a phantom 
better  than  a statue,  and  twilight  better  than  full 
noon.”  For  him  ‘‘the  invisible  world  existed,” 
and  his  excursions  on  the  common  earth  were 
less  personal  to  himself,  and  less  real  than  his 
travels  in  that  other  country  that  is  and  is  not, 
like  a landscape  in  a dream,  and  is  and  is  not 
again.  His  stories  leave  u^  richer  not  in  facts 
but  in  emotions.  We  find  our  way  with  their 
help  into  novel  corners  of  sensation.  They  are 
like  rare  coloured  goblets  or  fantastic  metal- 
work, and  we  find,  often  with  surprise,  that  we 
have  waited  for  them.  That  is  their  vindication, 
that  the  test  between  the  valueless  and  the 
invaluable  of  the  fantastic.  There  are  tales  of 
twisted  extravagance  that  stir  us  with  no  more 
emotion  than  is  given  by  an  accidental  or  cap- 
ricious decoration,  never  felt  or  formed  in  the 
depths  of  a man.  There  are  others  whose  ex- 
travagance is  arbitrary,  ingenious  and  incredible 
because  explained.  But  the  best  of  Poe’s  tales, 

113  H 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

like  those  patterns  however  grotesque  that  have 
once  meant  the  world  to  a mind  sensible  to 
beauty,  have  a more  than  momentary  import. 
Like  old  melody,  like  elaborate  and  beautiful 
dancing,  like  artificial  light,  like  the  sight  of 
poison  or  any  other  concentrated  power,  they 
are  among  the  significant  experiences  that  are 
open  to  humanity. 


114 


POETRY 


POETRY 


POETRY  for  Poe  was  a passion  rather  than  a 
purpose,”  and  he  thought  about  it  considerably 
more  often  than  he  practised  it.  Certain  of  his 
theories,  that  limited  its  scope  to  a particular 
vein  of  material,  prevented  him  from  playing  with 
it  the  tricks  that  he  played  with  his  other  art  of 
narrative.  He  did  not  drag  it,  as  he  dragged  his 
story-telling,  in  pursuit  of  his  critical  admirations. 
He  did  not  expect  it,  as  he  expected  his  story- 
telling, to  turn,  like  a chameleon,  the  colour  of 
whatever  mood  he  laid  it  on.  Limiting  it  to  the 
expression  of  a single  aspect  of  himself,  he  was 
content  to  wait  for  the  moments  when  that 
aspect  was  his,  and,  when  they  did  not  come, 
'to  do  no  more  than  to  revise  what  he  had 
already  written.  Consequently,  his  poetry,  in 
spite  of  his  preference  for  it,  bulks  little  in  his 
work,  and  is  almost  overshadowed  by  the  volume 
of  his  poetical  theory. 

I shall  try,  as  far  as  possible  by  means  of 
direct  quotation,  to  outline  that  theory’s  more 
important  points. 


117 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


We  have  already  observed,  in  a brief  note  on 
his  criticism,  that  Poe  protested  against  the 
error  of  supposing  didacticism  to  be  a motive 
of  poetry.  He  speaks  in  The  Poetic  Principle 
of  a heresy  too  palpably  false  to  be  long 
tolerated,  but  one  which,  in  the  brief  period  it 
has  already  endured,  may  be  said  to  have 
accomplished  more  in  the  corruption  of  our 
Poetical  Literature  than  all  its  other  elements 
combined.” 

‘‘  I allude  to  the  heresy  of  The  Didactic,  It 
has  been  assumed,  tacitly  and  avowedly,  directly 
and  indirectly,  that  the  ultimate  object  of  all 
Poetry  is  Truth.  Every  poem,  it  is  said,  should 
inculcate  a moral ; and  by  this  moral  is  the 
poetical  merit  of  the  work  to  be  adjudged. 
We  Americans,  especially,  have  patronised  this 
happy  idea  ; and  we  Bostonians,  very  especially, 
have  developed  it  in  full.  We  have  taken  it 
into  our  heads  that  to  write  a poem  simply  for 
the  poem’s  sake,  and  to  acknowledge  such  to 
have  been  our  design,  would  be  to  confess  our- 
selves radically  wanting  in  the  true  Poetic 
Dignity  and  Force  ; but  the  simple  fact  is,  that, 
would  we  but  permit  ourselves  to  look  into  our 
own  souls,  we  should  immediately  there  discover 
that  under  the  sun  there  exists  nor  can  exist  any 
work  more  thoroughly  dignified,  more  supremely 
noble,  than  this  very  poem — this  poem  per  se — 
this  poem  which  is  a poem  and  nothing  more 
— this  poem  written  solely  for  the  poem’s  sake.” 

118 


POETRY 


The  Poetic  Principle  was  published  in  1850, 
after  Poe’s  death.  Eight  years  earlier,  in  a review 
of  Longfellow’s  ballads,  he  had  very  ingeniously 
suggested  how  didacticism,  once  an  accidental 
undercurrent,  had  come  to  be  considered  essential 
to  poetry. 

“ Mankind  have  seemed  to  define  Poesy  in  a 
thousand,  and  in  a thousand  conflicting,  defini- 
tions. But  the  war  is  only  one  of  words.  In- 
duction is  as  well  applicable  to  this  subject  as  to 
the  most  palpable  and  utilitarian ; and  by  its 
sober  processes  we  find  that,  in  respect  to  com- 
positions which  have  been  really  received  as 
poems,  the  imaginative,  or,  more  popularly,  the 
creative  portions  alone  have  insured  them  to  be 
so  received.  Yet  these  works,  on  account  of 
these  portions,  having  once  been  so  received  and 
so  named,  it  has  happened,  naturally  and  inevit- 
ably, that  other  portions  totally  unpoetic  have 
not  only  come  to  be  regarded  by  the  popular 
voice  as  poetic,  but  have  been  made  to  serve  as 
false  standards  of  perfection,  in  the  adj  ustment  of 
other  poetical  claims.  Whatever  has  been  found 
in  whatever  has  been  received  as  a poem  has 
been  blindly  regarded  as  eoo  statu  poetic.  And 
this  is  a species  of  gross  error  which  scarcely 
could  have  made  its  way  into  any  less  intangible 
topic.  In  fact,  that  licence,  which  appertains  to 
the  Muse  herself,  it  has  been  thought  decorous, 
if  not  sagacious,  to  indulge,  in  all  examinations 
of  her  character.” 

When  he  wrote  that  he  had  not  yet  written 
119 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


the  most  valuable  sentence  in  Eureka : ‘‘  A 
perfect  consistency  is  no  other  than  an  absolute 
truth.”  He  perceived  only  that  poetry  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  truth  of  novelists  and 
teachers.  The  “first  element”  of  poetry  was 
“ the  thirst  for  supernal  beauty — a beauty  which 
is  not  afforded  the  soul  by  any  existing  colloca- 
tion of  the  earth’s  forms — a beauty  which, 
perhaps,  no  possible  combination  of  those  forms 
would  fully  produce.”  Those  two  negations 
show  that  he  was  on  the  way  to  discovery,  but 
he  had  not  yet  seen  that  this  beauty  was  itself 
the  quality  of  a kind  of  truth,  the  truth  of  art, 
“an  absolute  truth”  when  “a  perfect  consist- 
ency.” He  had  not  yet  distinguished  between 
the  truth  of  morals  and  the  truth  of  art. 
Supernal  beauty  had  not  yet  been  recognised 
by  him  as  the  invariable  companion  of  the  only 
truth  that  is  above  argument.  Yet,  working  in 
the  dark,  his  face  was  in  the  right  direction,  and 
his  eyes  were  keen.  He  did  not,  as  a lesser  and 
more  headlong  thinker  would  have  done,  reject 
moral  truth  altogether,  but  generously  allowed 
it  its  humble  place  in  poetry,  its  importance  as 
of  a colour  or  a note  of  music  with  a higher  end 
to  serve.  Benedetto  Croce  goes  no  further. 

In  The  Poetic  Principle,  which,  published  in 
1850,  is  a lecture,  and  so  in  its  final  form  probably 
represents  his  ideas  very  shortly  before  his  death, 

120 


POETRY 


he  still  does  not  follow  the  line  of  thought  which 
Eureka  had  thrown  open.  He  is  more  polite  to 
the  truth  of  logic  (in  issuing  that  book  he  had 
openly  set  up  as  a thinker)  but  he  does  not  call 
poetry  by  any  name  that  would  show  he  had 
seen  the  trend  of  his  own  thinking,  and  recognised 
poetry  as  truth  of  a different  kind. 

“ With  as  deep  a reverence  for  the  True  as 
ever  inspired  the  bosom  of  man,  I would,  never- 
theless, limit  in  some  measure  its  modes  of 
inculcation.  I would  limit  to  enforce  them.  I 
would  not  enfeeble  them  by  dissipation.  The 
demands  of  Truth  are  severe;  she  has  no  sym- 
pathy with  the  myrtles.  All  that  which  is  so 
indispensable  in  Song,  is  precisely  all  that  with 
which  she  has  nothing  to  do.  It  is  but  making 
her  a flaunting  paradox  to  wreathe  her  in  gems 
and  flowers.  In  enforcing  a truth  we  need 
severity  rather  than  efflorescence  of  language. 
W e must  be  simple,  precise,  terse.  W e must  be 
cool,  calm,  unimpassioned.  In  a word,  we  must 
be  in  that  mood,  which,  as  nearly  as  possible,  is 
the  exact  converse  of  the  poetical.  He  must  be 
blind  indeed  who  does  not  perceive  the  radical 
and  chasmal  differences  between  the  truthful  and 
the  poetical  modes  of  inculcation.  He  must  be 
theory-mad  beyond  redemption  who,  in  spite  of 
these  differences,  shall  still  persist  in  attempting 
to  reconcile  the  obstinate  oils  and  waters  of 
Poetry  and  Truth.” 

This  would  seem  final.  I shall  run  the  risk  of 
121 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


being  myself  considered  theory-mad,  if  I point  out 
that  he  protests  against  the  attempted  reconcilia- 
tion not  of  poetry  and  truth,  but  of  lyrical  and 
logical  truth,  of  the  concrete  and  the  abstract, 
or,  as  Croce  puts  it,  of  intuition  and  conception. 

He  sums  up  the  result  of  his  thinking  in  these 
two  paragraphs : 

“ To  recapitulate,  then : I would  define,  in 
brief,  the  Poetry  of  words  as  The  Rhythmical 
Creation  of  Beauty,  Its  sole  arbiter  is  Taste. 
With  the  Intellect  or  with  the  Conscience,  it 
has  only  collateral  relations.  Unless  incidentally, 
it  has  no  concern  whatever  either  with  Duty  or 
with  Truth. 

‘‘  A few  words,  however,  in  explanation.  That 
pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most  pure,  the 
most  elevating,  and  the  most  intense,  is  derived, 
I maintain,  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
Beautiful.  In  the  contemplation  of  Beauty  we 
alone  find  it  possible  to  attain  that  pleasurable 
elevation,  or  excitement,  of  the  soul,  which  we 
recognise  as  the  Poetie  Sentiment,  and  which  is 
so  easily  distinguished  from  Truth,  which  is  the 
satisfaction  of  the  Reason,  or  from  Passion, 
which  is  the  excitement  of  the  Heart.  I make 
Beauty,  therefore — using  the  word  as  inclusive 
of  the  sublime — I make  Beauty  the  province  of 
the  poem,  simply  because  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of 
Art  that  effects  should  be  made  to  spring  as 
directly  as  possible  from  their  causes — no  one  as 
yet  having  been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  the 
peculiar  elevation  in  question  is  at  least  most 

122 


POETRY 


readily  attainable  in  the  poem.  It  by  no  means 
follows,  however,  that  the  incitements  of  Passion, 
or  the  precepts  of  Duty,  or  even  the  lessons  of 
Truth,  may  not  be  introduced  into  a poem,  and 
with  advantage  ; for  they  may  subserve,  incident- 
ally, in  various  ways,  the  general  purposes  of  the 
work  ; but  the  true  artist  will  always  contrive  to 
tone  them  down  in  proper  subjection  to  that 
Beauty  which  is  the  atmosphere  and  the  real 
essence  of  the  poem.” 

Bold  utterance,  this,  in  the  America  of  Lowell, 
Longfellow,  and  Emerson. 

Poe’s  theories,  however,  did  not  stop  at  a 
definition  of  poetry.  Spending  much  of  his  time 
in  reviewing  bad  poets,  and  learning  continually 
from  his  own  work  in  prose,  he  busied  himself  in 
many  considerations  of  craftsmanship.  Baude- 
laire calls  him  ‘‘  un  po^te  qui  pretend  que  son 
po^me  a ete  compose  d’apres  son  po^tique.” 
His  poetique  was  sufficiently  detailed.  It  was 
no  collection  of  vague  theories,  but  had  a practical 
influence  on  what  he  did.  That  one  of  his  beliefs 
that  has  been  .most  discussed  is  concerned  with 
length.  He  field  that  a long  poem  does  not 
exist,  and  that  books  of  this  appearance  are 
really  collections  of  independent  lyrics.  He 
supported  this  theorem  in  an  ingenious  and 
irrefutable  manner.  He  writes  in  one  of  the 
Marginalia  : “ . . . to  appreciate  thoroughly  the 
work  of  what  we  call  genius  is  to  possess  all  the 

123 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


^genius  by  which  the  work  was  produced.”  Now 
that  is  a separation  of  the  work  of  art  from 
the  painted  canvas  or  the  printed  book,  similar 
to  that  accomplished  by  Benedetto  Croce,  in 
his  Theory  of  ^Esthetic,  It  perceives  that  the 
work  of  art  has  ’ a mental  rather  than  a physical 
existence,  and  that  the  canvas  or  the  book 
are  only  the  stimuli  that  make  possible  its  con- 
tinual renaissance.  The  picture  or  poem  is  a 
collaboration  between  artist  and  student,  and 
exists  only  so  long  as  this  collaboration  lasts. 
With  this  clearly  understood,  he  writes  in  The 
Poetic  Principle : 

‘‘  I need  scarcely  observe  that  a poem  deserves 
its  title  only  inasmuch  as  it  excites,  by  elevating 
the  soul.  The  value  of  the  poem  is  in  the  ratio 
of  this  elevating  excitement.  But  all  excite- 
ments are,  through  a psychal  necessity,  transient. 
That  degree  of  excitement  which  would  entitle  a 
poem  to  be  so  called  at  all  cannot  be  sustained 
throughout  a composition  of  any  great  length. 
After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  at  the  very 
utmost,  it  flags — fails — a revulsion  ensues — and 
then  the  poem  is,  in  effect,  and  in  fact,  no  longer 
such.” 

He  continues : 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  found 
difficulty  in  reconciling  the  critical  dictum  that  the 
Paradise  Lost  is  to  be  devoutly  admired  through- 
out, with  the  absolute  impossibility  of  maintaining 

124 


POETRY 


for  it,  during  perusal,  the  amount  of  enthusiasm 
which  that  critical  dictum  would  demand. 
This  great  work,  in  fact,  is  to  be  regarded  as 
poetical,  only  when,  losing  sight  of  that  vital 
requisite  in  all  works  of  Art,  Unity,  we  view  it 
merely  as  a series  of  minor  poems.  If,  to  preserve 
its  Unity — its  totality  of  effect  or  impression — 
we  read  it  (as  would  be  necessary)  at  a single 
sitting,  the  result  is  but  a constant  alternation 
of  excitement  and  depression.  After  a passage  of 
true  poetry  there  follows,  inevitably,  a passage 
of  platitude  which  no  critical  prejudgment  can 
force  us  to  admire ; but  if,  upon  completing  the 
work,  we  read  it  again,  omitting  the  first  book 
(that  is  to  say,  commencing  with  the  second),  we 
shall  be  surprised  at  now  finding  that  admirable 
which  we  had  before  condemned — that  damnable 
which  we  had  previously  so  much  admired.  It 
follows  from  all  this  that  the  ultimate,  aggregate, 
or  absolute  effect  of  even  the  best  epic  under  the 
sun  is  a nullity : and  this  is  precisely  the  fact.” 

There  is  a commonly  accepted  distinction 
between  lyrical  and  other  poems,  which  appears 
on  examination  to  be  merely  a rough  quantita- 
tive division,  that  counts  short  poems  lyrical.  In 
the  light  of  this  distinction  it  has  been  suggested 
that  Poe’s  arguments  against  long  poems  were 
prompted  by  the  fact  that  he  was  a lyrical,  and 
short-breathed  poet  himself.  His  opinion  had  a 
broader  foundation.  There  is  no  passage  in  his 
critical  work  that  goes  to  prove  that  he  had  not, 

125 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


and  many  that  show  that  he  had  recognised, 
like  Croce  in  our  own  day,  the  lyrical  nature  of 
all  art.  He  perceived  that  the  essential  quality 
of  art,  whether  drama,  poem,  statue,  melody  or 
picture,  is  this  same  lyricism  that  was  once 
attributed  only  to  poems  of  a certain  brevity. 
Again  and  again  in  his  work  are  indications  of 
a mind  grappling  with  problems  that  his  own 
understanding  set  far  out  of  reach  of  his  country 
and  time.  Poe  fought  many  battles  the  very 
dust  of  which  could  not  appear  to  his  contem- 
poraries. 

But  he  could  turn  from  questions  as  important 
as  these,  and,  with  equal  eagerness  and  vivacity, 
discuss  the  details  of  his  art.  Nothing  connected 
with  poetry  was  too  small  for  his  notice. 

In  The  Rationale  of  Verse  he  attacks  the 
teachers  of  versification  much  as  Hazlitt  invaded 
the  pedagogic  realm  of  English  Grammar.  Hazlitt 
asks  Is  Quackery  a thing,  i.e.^  a substance  ? ” in 
angry  comment  on  the  usual  definition  of  a noun. 
“ Versification,”  Poe  quotes  in  scorn,  “ is  the  art 
of  arranging  words  into  lines  of  correspondent 
length,  so  as  to  produce  harmony  by  the  regular 
alternation  of  syllables  differing  in  quantity.” 
He  proceeds  to  show  that  it  is  nothing  of  the 
sort,  and,  in  doing  so,  makes  several  notes  that 
let  us  see  how  carefully  he  has  thought  about 
his  art.  He  discusses,  for  example,  the  question 

126 


POETRY 


of  synseresis,  and  loudly  objects  to  the  practice 
of  writing  silv  ry,  am’rous,  flow’ring,  in  order  to 
comply  with  the  arbitrary  demands  of  a fantastic 
scheme  of  feet.  “ Blending,”  he  says,  “ is  the 
plain  English  for  syn(]cresis,  but  there  should  be 
no  blending  ; neither  is  an  anapaest  ever  employed 
for  an  iambus,  or  a dactyl  for  a trochee,”  He 
pointed  out  that  “ there  was  no  absolute  necessity 
for  adhering  to  the  precise  number  of  syllables, 
provided  the  time  required  for  the  whole  foot 
was  preserved  inviolate.”  He  takes  the  line, 

‘‘  Or  laugh  and  shake  in  Rabelais’  easy  chair,” 

and  asks  if  we  suppose  it  should  be  scanned  and 
pronounced 

“ Or  laugh  | ^nd  shake  | in  Rab  | elais’  ga  | sy 
chair,” 

instead  of  sounding  Rabelais  in  three  syllables^ 
the  last  two  being  in  quick  time,  so  equalising 
and  at  the  same  time  delightfully  varying  the 
foot.  He  was  not  advocating  any  looseness  of 
metre.  On  the  contrary,  he  held  that  “that 
rhythm  is  erroneous  (at  some  point  or  other, 
more  or  less  obvious)  which  any  ordinary  reader 
can,  without  design,  read  improperly.  It  is  the 
business  of  the  poet  so  to  construct  his  line  that 
the  intention  must  be  caught  at  onceT  But  he 
states  the  general  proposition  that  “ in  all 
rhythms  the  prevalent  or  distinctive  feet  may 

127 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


be  varied  at  will,  and  nearly  at  random,  by  the 
occasional  introduction  of  equivalent  feet — that 
is  to  say,  feet  the  sum  of  whose  syllabic  times  is 
equal  to  the  sum  of  the  syllabic  times  of  the  dis- 
tinctive feet.”  This  little  charter  is  the  base  of 
the  delicious  liberties  of  such  modern  verse  as 
Mr.  Yeats’,  and  holds  the  secret  of  all  the 
gossamer  swayings  of  those  melodies  that  are 
too  delicate  for  definition,  and  tune  our  ears  to 
hear  the  music  of  the  fairies. 

Poe  himself  makes  frequent  appeal  to  it.  For 
example,  in : 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town ; 

But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently. 

Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free  : 

Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 

Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 

Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers. 

Up  many  and  many  a marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine.” 

The  last  line  of  this  wonderful  little  scrap 
of  music  was  the  favourite  verse  of  Ernest 
Dowson.* 

Throughout  all  Poe’s  writings  on  poetry  blows 

* See  Mr.  Arthur  Symons  Essay,  prefixed  to  Dowson’s 
Poems. 


128 


POETRY 


a refreshing  wind  of  sense.  He  defines  the 
object  of  art,  and,  that  done,  refuses  to  let  detail 
obstruct  the  distant  vision.  Details  are  all-im- 
portant, but  he  insists  on  seeing  them  as  details, 
as  means,  not  ends,  and  will  not  allow  the  fly- 
ing dust  of  argument  to  blind  him  to  the 
purpose  in  relation  to  which  alone  they  are 
worth  discussion.  He  writes  of  refrains,  of 
internal  and  triplicate  rhyme,  of  the  vivid  effect 
that  can  be  wrought  by  the  use  of  rhyme  at 
unexpected  places,  and,  in  all  this,  never  for  a 
moment  allows  himself  to  generalise  without 
a view  to  practice.  He  upholds  legitimate 
liberties,  because  they  are  a help  to  the  making 
of  beauty.  He  condemns  illegitimate  licence, 
because  it  is  a help  to  the  vanity  of  the  incom- 
petent. Like  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  he  has 
no  praise  for  the  inversion  of  the  poetasters.  If 
a man  wishes  to  speak  of  a well,  whose  waters 
swell  amid  its  chill  and  drear  confines,  he  must 
not  write 

‘‘  Its  confines  chill  and  drear  amid,” 
and  imagine  that  he  is  making  poetry. 

‘‘Few  things  have  a greater  tendency  than  in- 
version to  render  verse  feeble  and  ineffective.  In 
most  cases  where  a line  is  spoken  of  as  ‘ forcible,’ 
the  force  may  be  referred  to  directness  of  ex- 
pression. A vast  majority  of  the  passages  which 
have  become  household  through  frequent  quota- 

129  I 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


tion  owe  their  popularity  either  to  this  directness, 
or,  in  general,  to  the  scorn  of  ‘ poetic  licence.’  In 
short,  as  regards  verbal  construction,  the  more 
prosaic  a poetical  style  is,  the  better.” 

In  writing  of  the  possibilities  of  verse,  Poe 
traces  a possible' history  of  its  development  from 
the  rudimentary  spondee. 

“ The  very  germ  of  a thought,  seeking  satisfac- 
tion in  equality  of  sound,  would  result  in  the 
construction  of  words  of  two  syllables  equally 
accented.  . . . The  perception  of  monotone 
having  given  rise  to  an  attempt  at  its  relief,  the 
first  thought  in  this  new  direction  would  be 
that  of  collating  two  or  more  words  formed  each 
of  two  syllables  differently  accented  (that  is 
to  say,  short  and  long)  but  having  the  same 
order  in  each  word  : in  other  terms,  of  collating 
two  or  more  iambuses,  or  two  or  more  trochees. 
. . . The  success  of  the  experiment  with  the 
trochees  or  iambuses  (the  one  would  have  sug- 
gested the  other)  must  have  led  to  a trial  of 
dactyls  or  anapaests — natural  dactyls  or  anapaests 
— dactylic  or  anapaestic  words,  ...  We  have 
now  gone  so  farlas  to  suppose  men  constructing 
indefinite  sequences  of  spondaic,  iambic,  trochaic, 
dactylic  or  anapaestic  words.  In  extending  these 
sequences,  they  would  be  again  arrested  by  the 
sense  of  monotone.  A succession  of  spondees 
would  immediately  have  displeased ; one  of  iambuses 
or  of  trochees,  on  account  of  the  variety  included 
within  the  foot  itself,  would  have  taken  longer 
to  displease;  one  of  dactyls  or  anapaests,  still 

130 


POETRY 


longer ; but  even  the  last,  if  extended  very  far, 
must  have  become  wearisome.  The  idea,  first  of 
curtailing,  and  secondly,  of  defining  the  length 
of  a sequence,  would  thus  at  once  have  arisen. 
Here  then  is  the  line,  or  verse  proper.  . . . Lines 
being  once  introduced,  the  necessity  of  distinctly 
defining  these  lines  to  the  ear  (as  yet  written 
verse  does  not  exist)  would  lead  to  a scrutiny  of 
their  capabilities  at  their  terminations ; and  now 
would  spring  up  the  idea  of  equality  in  sound 
between  the  final  syllables — in  other  words,  of 
rhyme.  . . . That  men  have  so  obstinately  and 
blindly  insisted,  in  general,  even  up  to  the  present 
day,  in  confining  rhyme  to  the  ends  of  lines, 
when  its  effect  is  even  better  applicable  elsewhere, 
intimates,  in  my  opinion,  the  sense  of  some 
necessity  in  the  connection  of  the  end  with  rhyme 
— hints  that  the  origin  of  rhyme  lay  in  a necessity 
which  connected  it  with  the  end — shows  that 
neither  mere  accident  nor  mere  fancy  gave  rise 
to  the  connection — points,  in  a word,  at  the  very 
necessity  which  I have  suggested  (that  of  some 
mode  of  defining  lines  to  the  ear)  as  the  true 
origin  of  rhyme.  . . . The  narrowness  of  the 
limits  within  which  verse  composed  of  natural 
feet  alone  must  necessarily  have  been  confined, 
would  have  led,  after  a very  brief  interval,  to  the 
trial  and  immediate  adoption  of  artificial  feet — 
that  is  to  say,  of  feet  not  constituted  each  of  a 
single  word,  but  two  or  even  three  words,  or  of 
parts  of  words.  These  feet  would  be  intermingled 
with  natural  ones.  . . . And  now,  in  our  sup- 
posititious progress,  we  have  gone  so  far  as  to 
exhaust  all  the  essentialities  of  verse.” 

131 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


He  proceeds  to  discuss  such  valuable  inessen- 
tials as  alliteration  and  refrains.  The  frequent 
use  of  the  refrain  is  characteristic  of  his  own 
poetry.  It  is  sometimes  the  burden  at  the  closes 
of  the  stanzas  that  he  believes  was  its  origin,  but  he 
notices  ‘‘  that  further  cultivation  would  improve 
also  the  refrain  in  slightly  varying  the  phrase  at 
each  repetition  or  (as  I have  attempted  to  do  in 
T'he  Raven)  in  retaining  the  phrase  and  varying 
its  application — although  the  latter  point  is  not 
strictly  a rhythmical  effect  alone.”  In  The 
Raven  “Nevermore”  does  not  become  the  re- 
frain until  the  eighth  out  of  the  eighteen  stanzas. 
“ Nothing  more,”  varied  in  application,  ends  six 
of  them ; “ evermore  ” the  seventh.  Of  the 
eleven  stanzas  that  end  in  “ nevermore,”  six  of  the 
last  lines  are  differently  worded.  The  monotony  of 
the  remaining  five  refrains,  “ Quoth  the  Raven, 
‘ Nevermore,’”  is  made  surprising  and  changeful 
by  the  stanzas  that  they  close.  A similar  method 
is  followed  in  The  Bridal  Ballad  and,  much 
more  delicately,  in  Ulaluvie,  where  three  of  the 
nine  stanzas  end  with  variations  upon 

“ It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  W eir  : 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir,” 

which  is  also  a good  example  of  Poe’s  economical 
use  of  alliteration.  Another  form  of  refrain,  that 

132 


POETRY 


is  no  more  than  a reinforcing  echo,  is  used  in  this 
poem  and  in  others. 

‘‘  The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere.” 

In  Ulalume  it  is  part  of  the  obvious  design  of 
the  stanzas,  which  are  meant  to  be  whispering- 
galleries.  Elsewhere  it  is  made  to  seem  a care- 
less accident.  In  the  musical  and  wave-like  flow 
of  speech  it  is  as  if  one  wave  has  chosen  to  break 
before  its  time. 

“In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 

Once  a fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — raised  its  head.” 

In  the  following  example  it  is  combined  with 
another  effect  that  is  peculiarly  Poe’s : 

“ Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 
And  weep  above  a nameless  grave  ! 

They  wave : from  out  their  fragrant  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops.” 

Here,  beside  the  half-suggested  echo  of  “ wave,” 
is  a wholly  unexpected  rhyme.  Poe’s  theory  on 
this  point  was  not  early  developed.  He  writes 
in  The  Rationale  of  Verse,  continuing  his 
history  : 

“ Finally,  poets  when  fairly  wearied  with  fol- 
lowing precedent — following  it  the  more  closely 

133 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


the  less  they  perceived  it  in  company  with  reason 
— would  adventure  so  far  as  to  indulge  in  positive 
rhyme  at  other  points  than  the  ends  of  lines. 
First,  they  would  put  it  in  the  middle  of  the 
line  ; then  at  some  point  where  the  multiple 
would  be  less  obvious ; then,  alarmed  at  their 
own  audacity,  they  would  undo  all  their  work 
by  cutting  these  lines  in  two.  And  here  is  the 
fruitful  source  of  the  infinity  of  ‘ short  metre,’  by 
which  modern  poetry,  if  not  distinguished,  is  at 
least  disgraced.  It  would  require  a high  degree, 
indeed,  both  of  cultivation  and  of  courage,  on 
the  part  of  any  versifier,  to  enable  him  to  place 
his  rhymes — and  let  them  remain — at  unques- 
tionably their  best  position,  that  of  unusual  and 
unanticipated  intervals.” 

Poe  had  not  always  thought  so,  and  his  own 
verse  had  been  so  “ disgraced.”  The  lines  of 
Lenore^  as  they  were  first  printed,  were  cut  in 
two  and  in  three. 

Oscar  Wilde’s  Sphinx  is  the  best  example 
I can  remember  of  thus  printing  the  lines  with 
reference  to  themselves  rather  than  to  the  rhymes 
that  they  contain. 

‘‘  The  river  horses  in  the  slime  trumpeted  when 
they  saw  him  come 

Odorous  with  Syrian  galbanum  and  smeared 
with  spikenard  and  with  thyme.” 

The  delicacy  of  the  lines  would  be  cruelly 
bruised  if  they  were  printed 

134 


POETRY 


“ The  river  horses  in  the  slime 

Trumpeted  when  they  saw  him  come 
Odorous  with  Syrian  galbanum 

And  smeared  with  spikenard  and  with  thyme.” 

Examples  of  Poe’s  unanticipated  rhymes  are  ; 

“ And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each 
purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  horrors 
never  felt  before,” 

and 

“ That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night? 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee.” 

But  although  it  would  be  interesting  to  follow 
in  detail  the  influence  of  Poe’s  attention  to  his 
instrument  on  the  music  he  touched  from  its 
strings,  it  is  perhaps  more  profitable  to  consider 
them  separately.  I wish  to  turn  now  to  a dis- 
cussion of  the  characteristics  of  Poe’s  small  body 
of  verse.  One  or  two  curious  facts  at  once  pre- 
sent themselves  for  explanation. 

Scarcely  any  English  critics  but  many  French 
have  held  his  poetry  to  be  his  most  perfect  ex- 
pression. There  is  something  in  it  that  annoys 
the  English  reader,  if  ever  so  slightly,  and  that 
something  disappears  for  the  foreigner.  This  is 
itself  sufficient  to  suggest  that  we  must  put  it 
down  to  a quality  of  his  language.  In  doing  so 

135 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


we  are  on  very  quaggy  ground,  since  words  and 
their  haloes  of  suggested  meaning  are  the  very 
stuff  of  poetry,  and  in  quarrelling  with  their  use 
we  are  very  sure  to  be  scarcely  upon  speaking 
terms  with  the  poems  in  which  they  are  contained. 
It  is  impossible  to  quarrel  with  a poet  s wording 
without  quarrelling  with  his  poetry.  But  there 
is  in  much  new  poetry  a novelty  of  language 
that  distresses  us  until  we  are  accustomed  to  it. 
Dialect  poetry  suffers  from  a similar  disadvantage. 
It  is  like  seeing  a new  actress  in  an  old  part : a 
novelty  not  distressing  to  any  one  unfamiliar  with 
the  part,  and  not  haunted  by  memories  of  the 
older  actresses  who  played  it  so  incomparably 
well.  This  novelty  or  strangeness  of  language  is 
less  keenly  perceived  by  a foreigner.  Baudelaire 
and  Mallarme  are  not  shocked  by  it,  because 
they  do  not  see  it,  and,  in  their  wonderful 
prose  versions,  it  naturally  disappears.  We  may 
even  have  to  go  to  these  French  translations 
to  learn  the  pleasure  that  waits  for  us  in  the 
originals. 

I choose  an  example  from  The  Sleeper^  the 
poem  of  all  Poe’s  that  I consider  least  touched 
by  this  finger  of  strangeness. 

‘‘  O lady  bright  / can  it  be  right. 

This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 

The  wanton  airs  from  the  tree-top. 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop  ; 

136 


POETRY 


The  bodiless  airs,  a wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out. 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully,  so  fearfully. 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
’Neath  which  thy  slumb’ring  soul  lies  hid. 
That  o’er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall. 

Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

O lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  ? 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o’er  far-off  seas, 

A wonder  to  these  garden  trees  ! 

Strange  is  thy  pallor  ; strange  thy  dress. 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness  ! ” 

I can  read  that  now  with  a pleasure  quite  unspoilt 
by  the  memory  that  once  the  two  lines  here  printed 
in  italics  pained  me  so  that  I could  find  no  readiness 
of  enjoyment  for  the  others.  Incredible  as  now 
it  seems  to  me,  I had  to  learn  its  excellence  from 
Mallarme’s  version  where  those  two  sharp  repeats 
(not  objectionable,  perhaps  admirable,  in  them- 
selves) were  smoothed  away  with  the  dear  ” and 
the  “ bright  ” that  had  bothered  me. 

Oh ! dame  brillante,  vraiment  est-ce  bien, 
cette  fenetre  ouverte  a la  nuit  ? Les  airs  folatres 
se  laissent  choir  du  haut  de  I’arbre  rieusement 
par  la  persienne ; les  airs  incorporels,  troupe 
magique,  voltigent  au  dedans  et  au  dehors  de  la 
chambre,  et  agitent  les  rideaux  du  baldaquin  si 
brusquement  — si  terriblement  — au-dessus  des 
closes  paupieres  frangees  ou  ton  ame  en  le  somme 

137 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


git  cachee,  que,  le  long  du  plancher  et  en  bas  du 
mur,  comme  des  fantomes  s’deve  et  descend 
Tombre.  Oh ! dame  aimee,  n’as-tu  pas  peur  ? 
Pourquoi  ou  a quoi  reves-tu  maintenant  ici  ? Sur, 
tu  es  venue  de  par  les  mers  du  loin,  merveille 
pour  les  arbres  de  ces  jardins.  Etrange  est  ta 
paleur  ! etrange  est  ta  toilette  ! etrange  par-dessus 
tout  ta  longueur  de  cheveux,  et  tout  ce  solennel 
silence ! ” 

And  was  this  the  poem  that  my  impatience 
hid  from  me  ? I turned  from  one  to  the  other 
until  at  last  Poe’s  language  became  my  own,  and 
his  verses  flapped  their  dusky,  jewelled  wings 
unsmudged  before  my  eyes. 

Poe  is  not  alone  among  poets  in  thus  not 
easily  becoming  manifest  in  his  own  person. 
Himself  found  the  language  of  Wordsworth 
repugnant  and  vulgar.  A poet  like  Lascelles 
Abercrombie  is  not  so  easily  recognised  as,  for 
example,  a poet  like  Ernest  Dowson.  When 
Abercrombie  writes  : 

‘‘  And  full  of  the  very  ardour  out  of  God 
Come  words,  lit  with  white  fires,  having  past 
through 

The  fearful  hearth  in  Heaven  where,  unmixt. 
Unfed,  the  First  Beauty  terribly  burns. 

A great  flame  is  the  world,  splendid  and  brave  ; 
But  words  come  carrying  such  a vehemence 
Of  Godhead,  glowing  so  hot  out  of  the  holy 
kiln. 


138 


POETRY 

The  place  of  fire  whence  the  blaze  of  existence 
rose, 

That  dulled  in  brightness  looks  the  world 
against  them, 

Even  the  radiant  thought  of  man,” 

he  will  find  even  worthy  readers  to  ask  themselves. 
And  is  this  poetry  ? ” They  may  ask  it  more 
than  once,  before,  at  last,  the  thing  is  freed  for 
them,  or  the  passages  of  their  ears  for  it,  and 
their  hearts  greet  it  with  joyful  acclamation. 
And  the  reasons  for  this  foreignness  of  much  true 
poetry  are  not  all  the  same.  With  Abercrombie 
it  may  be  that  his  words  are  accustomed  to  a 
high  world  of  metaphysical  thought  where 
we  must  climb  to  meet  them.  With  Words- 
worth it  may  be  simply  the  result  of  an  ex- 
aggerated theory,  fertile  like  all  exaggerations. 
With  Poe,  it  may  be  the  strange  web  between 
himself  and  the  America  he  knew,  so  much 
further  from  England  than  that  of  Hawthorne 
or  of  Emerson. 

It  would  be  possible  to  collect  many  instances 
of  an  apparent  deafness  or  bluntness  that  is 
painful  to  those  brought  up  in  another  atmo- 
sphere, where  certain  discords  or  worn-out 
expressions  are  become  forbidden  things  or 
laughable  accidents. 

From  Ulalume : 

‘‘  She  revels  in  a region  of  sighs.” 

139 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


From  Lenore : 

‘‘  The  sweet  Lenore  hath  ^ gone  before,’  * with 
Hope  that  flew  beside.” 

From  The  Raven : 

‘‘  Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — 
tell  me,  I implore.” 

There  is  this  difficulty  of  language  that  repels 
readers  from  his  poetry.  There  are  also  some 
considerations  of  technique.  The  most  obvious 
characteristic  of  Poe’s  verse  is  its  tunefulness. 

It  is  in  Music,  perhaps,  that  the  soul  most 
nearly  attains  the  great  end  for  which,  when 
inspired  by  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  it  struggles — 
the  creation  of  supernal  Beauty.  It  may  be, 
indeed,  that  here  the  sublime  end  is,  now  and 
then,  attained  in  fact.  We  are  often  made  to 
feel,  with  a shivering  delight,  that  from  an  earthly 
harp  are  stricken  notes  which  cannot  have  been 
unfamiliar  to  the  angels.” 

Such  notes  are  sometimes  struck  by  Poe,  as  in 
the  bodiless  Isi^afel.  But  sometimes,  also,  his 
rather  indelicate  melody  makes  him  suffer  from 
the  admiration  of  those  who  like  tavern  music, 
not  because,  like  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  they  hear 
in  it  some  echo  of  the  music  of  the  spheres,  but 

* It  has  been  objected  that  the  vulgarisation  of  the  phrase 
printed  in  quotation  marks  has  taken  place  since  Poe  used  it. 
The  reply  is  that  it  was  actually  so  printed  in  a version  of 
Lenore  published  in  Poe’s  lifetime. 

140 


POETRY 


because  they  require  of  music,  as  of  poetry,  that 
it  shall  rest  their  heads  and  be  a kind  of  tuneful 
soporific.  On  the  other  hand,  it  brings  him  the 
contempt  of  some  more  valuable  readers,  who 
remember  the  rather  heartless  melody  of  The 
Belk,  and  dismiss  him  as  a jingle-monger. 
Sometimes,  too,  words  and  melody  do  not  match, 
and  in  marrying  music  to  immortal  verse  ” he 
makes  a mariage  de  convenance,  and,  though  the 
bride  be  lovely  and  the  bridegroom  strong,  there  is 
no  wedding  guest  but  is  conscious  of  the  ugliness 
of  their  union,  even  if  he  feels  this  ugliness  only 
as  an  uncomfortable  dissatisfaction  in  himself. 

But,  in  his  best  poems,  as  in  his  best  tales,  he 
touches  perfection.  His  finest  stories  are  un- 
alterable from  start  to  finish.  His  rare  poems 
are  as  flawless  as  a crystal  drop,  whose  symmetry 
the  touch  of  a finger,  be  it  never  so  delicate,  would 
utterly  destroy.  To  Helen,  for  example  : 

“ Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicsean  barks  of  yore. 

That  gently,  o’er  a perfumed  sea. 

The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

‘‘  On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam. 

Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face. 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

141 


“ Lo  ! in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! , 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land!” 

Or  Israfel,  more  than  worthy  of  the  improve- 
ment on  the  Koran  with  which  he  introduces  it : 

‘‘And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings 
are  a lute,  and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all 
God’s  creatures.” — Koran, 

“ In  Heaven  a spirit  doth  dwell 
Whose  heart-strings  are  a lute  ; 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

“ Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon. 

The  enamoured  moon 
Blushes  with  love. 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 
(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even. 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

“ And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli’s  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings. 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

142 


POETRY 


But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a duty, 
Where  Love’s  a grown-up  God, 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a star. 

“ Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song ; 

To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest : 

Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit : 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love. 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  : 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute  ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine  ; but  this 
Is  a world  of  sweets  and  sours  ; 

Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers. 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 
A mortal  melody. 

While  a bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 
From  my  lyre  within  the  sky.” 

Some  of  his  most  famous  poems  seem  to  me 
among  his  least  successful.  The  Raven^  for 

143 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


example,  a tour  de  force,  a skilful  piece  of  tech- 
nique, is  a well-shaped  body  that  has  never 
had  a soul  to  lose.  In  Ulalume  skill  almost 
swamps  inspiration.  Annabel  Lee,  another 
work  of  his  last  years,  may  have  been  spoilt  for 
me  by  painstaking  young  ladies  at  their  mothers’ 
pianos.  I cannot  read  it  with  pleasure,  though 
I find  myself  repeating  some  of  its  lines.  I find 
his  best  poetry  in  the  revisions  of  his  youthful 
work,  like  The  Sleeper,  and  The  City  in  the  Sea, 
and  the  poems  printed  above. 

It  seems,  on  first  observing  it,  strange  that  the 
note  of  horror  that  sounds  so  often  in  the  tales 
should  be  almost  absent  from  the  poems.  There 
is,  certainly.  The  Conqueror  Worm,  and,  perhaps. 
The  Haunted  Palace : but  the  one  belongs  to 
Ligeia,  and  the  other  to  The  Fall  of  the  House 
of  Usher.  The  gloom  of  the  poems  is  of  a less 
various  texture  than  that  of  the  prose.  I believe 
that  the  difference  is  due  to  a rather  curious 
misconception  as  to  beauty  itself.  In  other  parts 
of  this  book  we  see  how  far  Poe  walked  on  the 
right  track  in  eliminating  from  the  beautiful  any 
kind  of  passion,  in  showing  that  beauty  is  a con- 
dition and  not  an  emotion,  in  asking  that  poetry 
should  aim  only  at  securing  this  condition,  and 
not  allow  itself  to  be  deflected  by  any  considera- 
tion of  didacticism  or  other  side  issue.  Here  we 
must  notice  that  he  went  too  far,  and  narrowed 

144 


POETRY 


the  scope  of  his  verse  by  rejecting,  as  incapable 
of  beauty,  a great  mass  of  material  that  his  own 
prose  showed  need  not  be  anything  of  the  kind. 
He  writes  : ‘‘  The  author  who  aims  at  the  purely 
beautiful  in  a prose  tale  is  labouring  at  a great 
disadvantage.  For  Beauty  can  be  better  treated 
in  the  poem.  Not  so  with  terror,  or  passion,  or 
horror,  or  a multitude  of  other  such  points.” 
Elsewhere  he  still  more  clearly  betrays  himself : 

‘‘We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately 
a distinct  conception  of  what  the  true  Poetry 
is,  by  mere  reference  to  a few  of  the  simple 
elements  which  induce  in  the  Poet  himself  the 
true  poetical  effect.  He  recognises  the  ambrosia, 
which  nourishes  his  soul,  in  the  bright  orbs  that 
shine  in  Heaven,  in  the  volutes  of  the  flower,  in 
the  clustering  of  low  shrubberies,  in  the  waving 
of  the  grain-fields,  in  the  slanting  of  the  tall. 
Eastern  trees,  in  the  blue  distance  of  mountains, 
in  the  grouping  of  clouds,  in  the  twinkling  of 
half-hidden  brooks,  in  the  gleaming  of  silver 
rivers,  in  the  repose  of  sequestered  lakes,  in  the 
star-mirroring  depths  of  lonely  wells.  He  per- 
ceives it  in  the  songs  of  birds,  in  the  harp  of 
iEolus,  in  the  sighing  of  the  night-wind,  in  the 
repining  voice  of  the  forest,  in  the  surf  that 
complains  to  the  shore,  in  the  fresh  breath  of  the 
woods,  in  the  scent  of  the  violet,  in  the  volup- 
tuous perfume  of  the  hyacinth,  in  the  suggestive 
odour  that  comes  to  him  at  eventide  from  far- 
distant,  undiscovered  islands,  over  dim  oceans, 
illimitable  and  unexplored.  He  owns  it  in  all 

145  K 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


noble  thoughts,  in  all  unworldly  motives,  in  all 
holy  impulses,  in  all  chivalrous,  generous,  and 
self-sacrificing  deeds.  He  feels  it  in  the  beauty 
of  woman,  in  the  grace  of  her  step,  in  the  lustre 
of  her  eye,  in  the  melody  of  her  voice,  in  her  soft 
laughter,  in  her  sigh,  in  the  harmony  of  the  rust- 
ling of  her  robes.  He  deeply  feels  it  in  her 
winning  endearments,  in  her  burning  enthusiasms, 
in  her  gentle  charities,  in  her  meek  and  devotional 
endurances  ; but  above  all — ah ! far  above  all — 
he  kneels  to  it,  he  worships  it  in  the  faith,  in  the 
purity,  in  the  strength,  in  the  altogether  divine 
majesty  of  her  love.” 

There  is  more  than  a hint  here  of  declamation 
and  an  impressible  audience,  but,  taken  with  the 
sentences  quoted  before  it,  it  provides  the  key 
we  seek.  What  is  it  but  a catalogue  of  lovely 
accidents,  from  which  all  that  we  have  not  grown 
accustomed,  in  our  loose  way,  to  call  'beautiful, 
is  excluded  ? With  such  a conception  of  the 
inspirations  of  poetry,  counting  them  distinct 
from  those  of  prose,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Poe’s 
excursions  as  a poet  seemed  visits  to  Arcady. 
He  never  returned  to  his  youthful  poems  without 
the  feelings  of  a man  remembering  the  Golden 
Age.  He  brought  to  their  revision  the  know- 
ledge that  prose  work  had  given  him,  and  made 
no  changes  that  were  not  for  the  better.  But  he 
never  let  his  poetry  follow  his  development.  It 
represented  only  one  of  his  aspects.  He  would 

146 


POETRY 


keep  it  always  a charming  child,  or  a dreaming 
Eros  that  no  Psyche  could  wake  with  burning  oil. 

“ Rafael  made  a century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a certain  volume 
Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 
Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas.” 

Poe’s  verse  was  to  the  prose-writer  what 
Rafael’s  sonnets  were  to  the  painter,  that  other 
art,  not  his,  and  yet  particularly  his  own,  cherished 
for  a supreme  purpose.  In  it,  to  paraphrase 
Browning,  he  gained  the  artist’s  joy,  missed  the 
man’s  sorrow,  finding  the  work  more  complex, 
and  so,  to  such  as  he,  a greater  pleasure,  and 
fixing  in  it,  and  refixing  in  revision,  those 
moments  that  seemed  so  fair  as  to  be  foreign  to 
his  life. 


147 


ANALYSIS 


ANALYSIS 


TWO  sorts  of  men  spend  time  on  riddles  : fools 
and  the  very  clever  ; fools  because,  in  sitting 
before  a conundrum,  aimlessly  puzzling  their 
brains  and  occasionally  chancing  on  a solution, 

. they  gain  a specious  sense  of  intellectual  activity ; 
the  very  clever  because  they  find  in  acrostics  and 
such  things  an  outlet  for  that  one  of  their 
faculties  that  moves  most  easily  with  its  own 
momentum,  that  works  ceaselessly  in  spite  of 
themselves,  and,  like  the  grindstone  of  a mill, 
groans  for  material  on  which  to  exercise  itself. 
This  faculty  is  analysis,  a tool  in  the  equipment 
of  all  artists.  So  important  is  it  to  them  that  it 
would  not  be  surprising  to  learn  that  the  con- 
verse were  also  true,  and  that  all  analysts  were 
capable  of  art.  If  it  were  discovered  that 
Euclid  had  written  poetry  beside  those  wonder- 
ful thirteen  books,  there  would  be  no  more 
incongruity  in  the  double  accomplishment  than 
in  Poe’s  writing  Silence : a Fable  as  well  as 
The  Purloined  Letter  and  his  article  on  cryp- 
tograms. There  would  be  no  incongruity  at  all. 

151 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  same  faculty  that  produced  the  one  made 
also  possible  the  other.  Analysis  is  the  art  of 
disentangling,  and  the  muddled  skein  of  our 
feelings  »and  images  must  first  be  disentangled 
before  we  can  knit  together  the  firm  plait  of  a 
lyrical  expression.  Analysis  is  more  than  obser- 
vation ; it  clears  the  moss  from  the  pebble  and 
lets  its  colouring  appear,  and  with  careful  fingers 
frees  the  honeysuckle  from  its  surrounding 
brambles.  It  makes  selection  possible,  though 
the  poet,  conscious  of  what  he  does,  would 
say  more  truly  that  it  helps  him  to  reject, 
to  throw  aside  the  arbitrary,  the  inessential, 
leaving,  perhaps,  gaps  that  miraculously  fill 
themselves  like  the  holes  we  make  when  we 
scoop  a floating  piece  of  dirt  from  a still  pool 
of  water. 

This  faculty  was  extraordinarily  developed  in 
Poe,  and  overflowed  its  legitimate  place  in  his 
creative  work.  It  had  its  share  in  laying  upon 
him  the  curse  of  self-consciousness  for  which  we 
value  him  so  highly.  It  was,  at  last,  like  fire 
who  is  better  as  a slave  than  as  a master,  to  rise 
up  and  battle  with  his  imagination  instead  of 
doing  its  loyal  best  to  aid  it.  He  found,  like 
Brockden  Brown,  whose  books  very  probably 
influenced  him,  that  ‘‘  curiosity,  like  virtue,  is  its 
own  reward,”  or,  at  least,  that  the  delight  of  the 
analysis  that  curiosity  inspires  is  sufficient  as  a 

152 


ANALYSIS 


motive  for  itself.  His  exercise  of  it  became  as 
necessary  to  him  as  absinthe  to  the  absinthe- 
drinker  ; it  was  greedy  of  his  energies,  and  grew 
in  greed  with  his  efforts  to  satisfy  it.  He  might 
have  cried  with  Faustus  : Sweet  Analytics,  ’tis 
thou  hast  ravished  me  ! ” The  same  faculty  that 
made  possible  the  lyrical  excellence  of  his  best 
works,  and  gave  his  critical  articles  their  most 
valuable  paragraphs,  spoilt  Eureka^  and  urged 
him  to  the  solution  of  cryptograms  and  the  study 
of  handwriting ; and,  turning  from  the  solution  of 
puzzles  to  their  manufacture,  set  him  to  the  com- 
position of  acrostic  sonnets  and  to  the  invention 
of  tales  of  analysis  in  which  it  becomes  the  material 
as  well  as  the  tool  of  art,  the  excitement  of 
reasoning  being  substituted  for  that  of  love  or 
terror. 

There  is  a kind  of  insolence  in  the  making  of 
acrostics  when  one  might  be  making  poetry.  It 
is  an  impertinence  in  the  face  of  the  gods,  as  if  a 
man  running  a race  were  to  stop  for  a moment 
before  the  judges’  stand,  and  fold  a cocked  hat 
from  a piece  of  paper,  before  resuming  the 
contest  whose  result  they  are  to  decide.  The 
excellence  of  the  cocked  hat — and  most  of  Poe’s 
exercises  in  this  kind  exhibit  an  almost  deplorable 
cleverness — does  not  in  the  least  affect  our  half- 
admiring,  half-resentful  impatience  of  his  having 
dared  to  fold  it  in  such  circumstances. 

153 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

‘‘  ‘ Seldom  we  find,’  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 

^ Half  an  idea  in  the  profoundest  sonnet. 
Through  all  the  flimsy  things  we  see  at  once 
As  easily  as  through  a Naples  bonnet — 
Trash  of  all  trash  ! How  can  a lady  don  it  ? 
Yet  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuff. 
Owl- downy  nonsense  that  the  faintest  puff 
Twirls  into  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it.’ 
And  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough. 

The  general  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles,  ephemeral  and  so  transparent ; 

But  this  is,  now,  you  may  depend  upon  it, 
Stable,  opaque,  immortal — all  by  dint 
Of  the  dear  names  that  lie  concealed  within’t.” 

That  is  one  of  Poe’s  cocked  hats.  To  unfold 
it,  take  the  first  letter  in  the  first  line,  the  second 
in  the  second  line,  the  third  in  the  third,  and  so 
on,  until  the  fourteen  letters  spread  out  into  a 
name  that,  but  for  the  insolent  fun  of  it  (though 
it  reads  dully  to  us),  might  have  been  better 
written  so  than  in  these  fourteen  empty  verses. 

There  is  something  of  the  same  flippant  serious- 
ness in  the  analysis  of  Maelzel’s  Chess-Player,  an 
automaton  very  neatly  and  unnecessarily  pulled 
to  pieces  with  the  help  of  Sir  David  Brewster. 
Time  is  wasted  just  as  earnestly  in  the  still 
cleverer  essay  on  solving  cryptograms.  Only, 
when  we  turn  from  all  these  exercises  (which 
may  have  served  a purpose  in  turning  play  to 
bread  and  butter)  and  read  the  four  tales  in  which 

154 


ANALYSIS 


Poe’s  analysis  snatched  an  independent  sesthetic 
value,  and  turned  into  a kind  of  poetry,  have  we 
the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  there  is  no  more  a 
question  of  cocked  hats,  but  of  the  business  of 
the  day. 

These  four  tales  are  The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,  The  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget,  The 
Purloined  Letter,  and  The  Gold  Bug.  Of 
these,  The  Gold  Bug,  though  not  the  first 
written,  is  not  free  from  elements  of  another 
kind.  The  law-court  atmosphere  of  evidence  and 
deduction  is  shaken  by  breaths  of  romance.  The 
skull  and  cross-bones  of  Captain  Kidd  wave  on 
a black  flag  before  our  eyes,  and  the  process  of 
analysis  is  carried  out  in  a lonely  hut  and  in  a 
forest  of  tropical  trees.  When  the  analysis  is 
over,  the  tale  closes  on  a note  of  different 
character,  a hollow  knell,  so  carefully  sounded  as 
almost  to  make  us  forget  the  original  interest  of 
the  tale  in  a moment  of  romantic  speculation. 
‘‘  Perhaps  a couple  of  blows  with  a mattock  were 
sufficient,  while  his  coadjutors  were  busy  in  the 
pit ; perhaps  it  required  a dozen — who  shall  tell  ? ” 
For  some  reason  or  other  Poe  was  afraid  to  trust 
himself  to  the  mechanism  he  had  already  proved. 
He  needed  flesh  and  blood  to  steady  his  belief  in 
the  thin  steel  framework  and  infinitesimal  wires 
of  his  machine. 

But  in  the  other  tales,  the  trilogy  of  Dupin,  he 

155 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


gaily  cast  off  his  safe  anchor  in  romance,  and 
adventured  on  the  untried  wings  of  curiosity  and 
analysis.  In  the  beginning  he  was  perhaps  over- 
conscious of  the  novelty  of  his  experiment.  The 
first  eleven  pages  of  The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue  are  taken  up  with  an  elaborate  account 
of  the  new  motive  power,  almost  as  if  he  were 
reassuring  himself.  He  has  to  talk  of  analysis, 
and  then  of  its  personification  in  Dupin,  of  the 
motive  power  and  then  of  the  engine  in  which  it 
is  to  be  used,  before,  in  the  story  itself,  he  gives, 
as  it  were,  a trial  and  a specimen  flight.  The 
Mystery  of  Marie  RogH  has  scarcely  a page  of 
introduction.  There  is  a short  reference  to  the 
former  flight,  and  the  inventor  is  in  the  air  again. 
The  Purlomed  Letter  is  without  preliminaries. 
Confident  that  the  machine  will  bear  him,  he 
rises  instantly  from  the  ground. 

It  is  possible  to  illustrate  the  method  and 
design  of  this  machine  by  showing  the  model, 
the  small  example  of  analysis  that  Poe  used  in 
his  introduction  to  the  first  of  his  three  experi- 
ments. The  specimen  will  cover  a few  pages 
that  can  ill  be  spared,  but  will  repay  us  by  being 
at  hand  for  reference.  It  is,  indeed,  a complete 
tale  in  itself,  a working  model  designed  for 
examination. 

“We  were  strolling  one  night  down  a long 
dirty  street,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais  Royal. 

156 


ANALYSIS 


Being  both,  apparently,  occupied  with  thought, 
neither  of  us  had  spoken  a syllable  for  fifteen 
minutes  at  least.  All  at  once  Dupin  broke 
forth  with  these  words  : 

‘‘  ‘ He  is  a very  little  fellow,  that’s  true,  and 
would  do  better  for  the  Theatre  des  Varietes' 

“ ‘ There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,’  I replied 
unwittingly,  and  not  at  first  observing  (so  much 
had  I been  absorbed  in  reflection)  the  extra- 
ordinary manner  in  which  the  speaker  had 
chimed  in  with  my  meditations.  In  an  instant 
afterward  I recollected  myself,  and  my  astonish- 
ment was  profound. 

‘ Dupin,’  said  I,  gravely,  ‘ this  is  beyond  my 
comprehension.  I do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I 
am  amazed,  and  can  scarcely  credit  my  senses. 
How  was  it  possible  you  should  know  I was 

thinking  of ? ’ Here  I paused,  to  ascertain 

beyond  a doubt  whether  he  really  knew  of  whom 
I thought. 

‘‘  ‘ Of  Chantilly,’  said  he,  ‘ why  do  you  pause  ? 
You  were  remarking  to  yourself  that  his  diminu- 
tive figure  unfitted  him  for  tragedy.’ 

This  was  precisely  what  had  formed  the 
subject  of  my  reflections.  Chantilly  was  a 
quondam  cobbler  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  who, 
becoming  stage-mad,  had  attempted  the  role  of 
Xerxes,  in  Crebillon’s  tragedy  so  called,  and  been 
notoriously  pasquinaded  for  his  pains. 

‘‘  ‘ Tell  me,  for  Heaven’s  sake,’  I exclaimed, 
‘ the  method — if  method  there  is — by  which  you 
have  been  enabled  to  fathom  my  soul  in  this 
matter.’  In  fact  I was  even  more  startled  than 
I would  have  been  willing  to  express. 

157 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


“ ‘ It  was  the  fruiterer,’  replied  my  friend, 
‘ who  brought  you  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
mender  of  soles  was  not  of  sufficient  height  for 
Xerxes  et  id  genus  omne" 

‘‘  ‘ The  fruiterer  ! — you  astonish  me — 1 know 
no  fruiterer  whomsoever.’ 

‘ The  man  who  ran  up  against  you  as  we 
entered  the  street — it  may  have  been  fifteen 
minutes  ago.’ 

I now  remembered  that,  in  fact,  a fruiterer, 
carrying  upon  his  head  a large  basket  of  apples, 
had  nearly  thrown  me  down,  by  accident,  as  we 
passed  from  the  Rue  C into  the  thorough- 

fare where  we  stood ; but  what  this  had  to  do 
with  Chantilly  I could  not  possibly  understand. 

‘‘  There  was  not  a particle  of  charlatanerie 
about  Dupin.  ‘ I will  explain,’  he  said,  ‘ and 
that  you  may  comprehend  all  clearly,  we  will 
first  retrace  the  course  of  your  meditations,  from 
the  moment  in  which  I spoke  to  you  until  that 
of  the  rencontre  with  the  fruiterer  in  question. 
The  larger  links  of  the  chain  run  thus — Chantilly, 
Orion,  Dr.  Nichols,  Epicurus,  Stereotomy,  the 
street  stones,  the  fruiterer.’ 

“ There  are  few  persons  who  have  not,  at  some 
period  of  their  lives,  amused  themselves  in  re- 
tracing the  steps  by  which  particular  conclusions 
of  their  own  minds  have  been  attained.  The 
occupation  is  often  full  of  interest,  and  he  who 
attempts  it  for  the  first  time  is  astonished  by  the 
apparently  illimitable  distance  and  incoherence 
between  the  starting-point  and  the  goal.  What, 
then,  must  have  been  my  amazement  when  I 
heard  the  Frenchman  speak  what  he  had  just 

158 


ANALYSIS 


spoken,  and  when  I could  not  help  acknow- 
ledging that  he  had  spoken  the  truth.  He 
continued : 

“ ‘ We  had  been  talking  of  horses,  if  1 remember 

aright,  just  before  leaving  the  Rue  C . This 

was  the  last  subject  we  discussed.  As  we  crossed 
into  the  street,  a fruiterer,  with  a large  basket 
upon  his  head,  brushing  quickly  past  us,  thrust 
you  upon  a pile  of  paving-stones  collected  at  a 
spot  where  the  causeway  is  undergoing  repair. 
You  stepped  upon  one  of  the  loose  fragments, 
slipped,  slightly  strained  your  ankle,  appeared 
vexed  or  sulky,  muttered  a few  words,  turned  to 
look  at  the  pile,  and  then  proceeded  in  silence. 
I was  not  particularly  attentive  to  what  you  did, 
but  observation  has  become  with  me,  of  late,  a 
species  of  necessity. 

‘“You  kept  your  eyes  upon  the  ground — 
glancing,  with  a petulant  expression  at  the  holes 
and  ruts  in  the  pavement  (so  that  I saw  you 
were  still  thinking  of  the  stones),  until  we  reached 
the  little  alley  called  Lamartine,  which  has  been 
paved,  by  iway  of  experiment,  with  the  over- 
lapping and  riveted  blocks.  Here  your  counten- 
ance brightened  up,  and  perceiving  your  lips 
move,  I could  not  doubt  that  you  murmured  the 
word  “ stereotomy,”  a term  very  affectedly  applied 
to  this  species  of  pavement.  1 knew  that  you 
could  not  say  to  yourself  “ stereotomy  ” without 
being  brought  to  think  of  atomies,  and  thus  of 
the  theories  of  Epicurus  ; and  since,  when  we 
discussed  this  subject  not  very  long  ago,  I 
mentioned  to  you  how  singularly,  yet  with  how 
little  notice,  the  vague  guesses  of  that  noble 

159 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Greek  had  met  with  confirmation  in  the  late 
nebular  cosmogony,  I felt  that  you  could  not 
avoid  casting  your  eyes  upwards  to  the  great 
nebula  in  Orion,  and  I certainly  expected  that 
you  would  do  so.  You  did  look  up,  and  I was 
now  assured  that  I had  correctly  followed  your 
steps.  But  in  that  bitter  tirade  upon  Chantilly, 
which  appeared  in  yesterday’s  Musee,  the  satirist, 
making  some  disgraceful  allusions  to  the  cobbler’s 
change  of  name  upon  assuming  the  buskin,  quoted 
a Latin  line  about  which  we  have  often  conversed. 
I mean  the  line  : 

‘ Perdidit  antiquum  litera  prima  sonum. 

“ ‘ I had  told  you  that  this  was  in  reference  to 
Orion,  formerly  written  Urion ; and,  from 
certain  pungencies  connected  with  this  explana- 
tion 1 was  aware  that  you  could  not  have 
forgotten  it.  It  was  clear,  therefore,  that  you 
would  not  fail  to  combine  the  two  ideas  of  Orion 
and  Chantilly.  That  you  did  combine  them  I 
saw  by  the  character  of  the  smile  which  passed 
over  your  lips.  You  thought  of  the  poor  cobbler’s 
immolation.  So  far,  you  had  been  stooping  in 
your  gait ; but  now  I saw  you  draw  yourself  up 
to  your  full  height.  I was  then  sure  that  you 
reflected  upon  the  diminutive  figure  of  Chantilly. 
At  this  point  1 interrupted  your  meditations  to 
remark  that  as,  in  fact,  he  was  a very  little  fellow 
that  Chantilly,  he  would  do  better  at  the  Theatre 
des  Varietes^ 

The  interest  of  that  anecdote  is  the  same  as 
the  interest  of  the  three  tales  to  which  it  is  a 

160 


ANALYSIS 


prelude.  It  does  not  consist  in  dulled  waiting 
upon  a solution,  but  in  ‘‘a  pleasurable  activity 
of  mind.”  It  is  a kind  of  gymnastic  with  which 
Poe  exercised  his  analytical  powers,  and  it  is  also 
something  more.  Poe’s  work  is  difficult  to  treat 
of  as  a whole,  because  of  his  tendency  to  the 
segregation  of  particular  moods  of  his  mind. 
This  separation  of  moods  is  common  to  all  men 
of  lyrical  expression ; but,  whereas  with  most 
artists  the  moods  separated  are  temperamental, 
the  faculty  of  analysis  assisting  the  disentangling 
of  one  mood  from  another,  Poe  goes  further,  and 
separates  analysis  itself.  He,  at  bottom  a critic 
and  thinker,  wore  several  masks  in  turn,  and  a 
study  of  him  can  only  hope  to  reach  the  truth  by 
the  examination  of  all  these  masks  as  circum- 
stantial evidence.  But  of  them  all,  analysis  is 
the  one  that,  for  good  or  evil,  he  least  readily 
laid  aside,  the  only  one  that  completely  obscures 
his  possession  of  other  dominoes.  The  puzzles, 
the  acrostics,  the  cryptograms,  show  how  much 
waste  energy  this  mask  allowed  him  to  spend. 
The  anecdote  we  have  just  read  will  show  how 
he  was  able  to  turn  this  faculty  of  his  brain  into 
the  material  for  lyrical  expression. 

In  those  tales  Poe  does  not  ask  us  to  be  sur- 
prised at  the  cleverness  of  Dupin.  The  little 
story  I have  quoted  tells  us  nothing  about  Dupin 
but  his  name,  yet  our  ignorance  does  not  in  the 

161  L 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

least  affect  our  enjoyment.  We  are  amazed,  not 
at  Dupin’s  subtlety,  but  at  the  human  mind. 
Dupin  is  not  an  analyst,  but  analysis.  It  is  for 
that  reason  that  some  people  have  complained  of 
his  lack  of  individuality.  They  might  as  well 
complain  of  Nicolete  in  the  old  French  tale. 
Dupin  and  Nicolete  are  not  individual  but  univer- 
sal. Not  that  I would  suggest  any  coarse  alle- 
gory in  either  case ; although  Poe  has  been  very 
careful,  in  the  few  details  he  cares  to  give  us,  to 
start  no  false  hare  of  personality,  and  to  leave 
Dupin  free  to  be  what  he  is.  Analysis,  for 
example,  loves  the  dark.  So  does  Dupin.  “ His 
manner  at  these  moments  (the  exercise  of  his 
analytic  abilities)  was  frigid  and  abstract ; his 
eyes  were  vacant  in  expression ; while  his  voice, 
usually  a rich  tenor,  ran  into  a treble  which 
would  have  sounded  petulantly  but  for  the  de- 
liberateness and  entire  distinctness  of  the  enuncia- 
tion.” Is  not  that  a vivid  observation  of  the 
physical  expression  of  analysis  itself?  And  then 
again ; Observing  him  in  these  moods,  I often 
dwelt  meditatively  upon  the  old  philosophy  of 
the  Bi-Part  Soul,  and  amused  myself  with  the 
fancy  of  a double  Dupin — the  creative  and  the 
resolvent.”  And,  finally,  ‘‘  There  was  not  a 
particle  of  charlatanerie  about  Dupin.”  I can 
imagine  Euclid  saying  the  same  in  a hymn  of 
praise  to  his  geometry.  “ I will  explain,”  he 

162 


ANALYSIS 


said,  and  Poe’s  three  stories  are  a lyrical  per- 
sonification of  the  explaining  faculties  of  the 
mind. 

The  abstract  can  never  be  the  material  of  art. 
It  has  already  passed  beyond  particular  expres- 
sion into  the  regions  of  thought.  It  has  left 
feeling  behind.  It  can  no  longer  lose  in  transla- 
tion, since  it  is  practically  independent  of  the 
words  that  are  used  to  note  it  down.  But  Poe 
is  not  moved  here  by  an  abstract  idea.  Dupin 
is  no  wooden  dummy  chosen  to  illustrate  such 
and  such  abstract  principles.  Instead,  the  reason- 
ing powers  of  a mind  that  keenly  enjoyed  them 
have  flowered  suddenly  into  something  concrete 
and  particular.  The  abstract  Love  has  become 
the  concrete  Nicolete,  who  cast  a shadow  in  the 
moonlit  streets  of  Beaucaire.  A new  moment 
of  the  unconscious  human  life  (unconscious  of 
itself  even  in  its  moments  of  careful  reason)  has 
been  isolated  and  made  real.  We  have  another 
scrap  of  conscious  life  in  which  our  brains  can 
shake  their  weights  off  and  be  lucidly  alive. 
Many  analysts,  geometricians  and  draughts- 
players  must  have  surprisedly  awakened  to  them- 
selves in  reading  those  three  tales. 

Let  us  now  examine  the  architecture  of  these 
stories,  in  which,  perhaps  more  clearly  than  in 
his  other  work,  Poe’s  skill  in  narrative  is  manifest. 
In  the  anecdote  we  have  read,  the  solution  and 

163 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  question  are  presented  first  and  together,  and 
the  interest  is  free  from  any  anxiety  to  know  the 
end.  It  lies  simply  in  retracing  the  steps  by 
which  the  solution  was  attained.  In  The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  the  question  is 
first  posed,  with  all  the  evidence,  over  which  the 
reader’s  mind  runs  in  hopeless  emulation  of  the 
power  that  is  then  applied  to  it  before  his  eyes. 
The  solution  follows,  and  finally  the  solution  and 
the  steps  by  which  it  has  been  found  are  one  by 
one  explained.  In  The  Mystery  of  Marie 
RogH  the  question  is  first  stated,  followed  by 
the  evidence,  interspersed  with  examples  of  false 
reasoning  which  are  disposed  of  by  Dupin,  who 
works  through  them  to  the  clue,  which,  as  he 
makes  clear,  is  itself  a solution.  In  The  Pur- 
loined Letter  the  question  is  first  posed,  with 
all  its  difficulties.  Then  there  is  a proof  of  its 
solution  (in  the  production  of  the  missing  letter), 
and  finally  an  account  of  the  methods  whereby 
the  problem  has  been  solved.  It  is  plain  that 
the  form  of  the  problems  is  sufficiently  various. 
The  constant  factor  in  the  reader’s  intellectual 
enjoyment  lies  (apart  from  wonder,  which  cer- 
tainly counts  a little)  in  the  swift  and  bracing 
gymnastic  of  following  the  mental  processes  that 
lead  to  the  solutions.  Our  knowledge  of  the 
solutions  does  not  in  the  least  affect  it.  Our 
aesthetic  pleasure,  dependent  first  upon  the  lyrical 

164 


ANALYSIS 


and  concrete  inspiration  of  the  whole,  is  due  to 
the  perfection  of  the  conditions  under  which  our 
mental  gymnastic  takes  place.  These  tales  share 
the  conditions  of  beauty  that  belong  to  Euclid’s 
propositions.  There  is  nothing  in  them  that  is 
unnecessary,  nothing  merely  baulking,  no  dead 
matter.  In  each  case  question  and  answer  are 
accurately  balanced  with  each  other.  The  details 
of  question  and  answer  come  in  the  right  order  ; 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  order  most  apt  for  the 
particular  tale.  Our  sesthetic  enjoyment,  then, 
is  partly  dependent  upon  plot,  an  element  whose 
importance  in  story-telling  Poe  was  one  of  the 
first  to  perceive.  Plot  does  not  mean  the  posing 
of  a question  and  rhe  keeping  of  its  answer  until 
the  end  of  the  story,  although  in  the  cruder 
forms  of  detective  fiction  it  does  manifest  its 
presence  in  this  way.  We  find  ourselves,  as 
so  often  throughout  the  book,  turning  to  Poe’s 
own  statements  of  aesthetic  theory : 

‘‘  Plot  is  very  imperfectly  understood,  and  has 
never  been  rightly  defined.  Many  persons  regard 
it  as  mere  complexity  of  incident.  In  its  most 
rigorous  acceptation,  it  is  that  from  which  no 
component  atom  can  be  removed^  and  in  which  none 
of  the  component  atoms  can  be  displaced,  without 
ruin  to  the  whole;  and  although  a sufficiently 
good  plot  may  be  constructed,  without  attention 
to  the  whole  rigour  of  this  definition,  still  it  is 
the  definition,  which  the  artist  should  always  keep 

165 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


in  view,  and  always  endeavour  to  consummate  in 
his  works.” 

Many  of  Poe’s  best  stories  fulfil  this  definition’s 
demands,  though  in  few  is  their  fulfilment  so 
easily  seen  as  in  these.  Plot,  like  composition  in 
a picture,  is  the  most  recognisable  mark  of  the 
analytic  spirit’s  presence  in  creation.  Reading 
again  that  part  of  Poe’s  definition  which  he  has 
underlined,  it  is  clear  that  there  is  no  real  differ- 
ence between  this  manifestation  of  analysis  and 
that  which  occurs  in  every  work  of  art,  even  if  it 
be  without  “ plot  ” obvious  as  such.  The  same 
power  that  separates  the  contradictory,  and 
rejects  the  irrelevant  in  the  careful  tending  of 
a growing  inspiration,  helps  the  artist  to  this 
ruder  proof  of  the  unity  of  his  work  with  itself. 
In  this  sense  there  is  plot  in  all  works  of  art.  It 
is  indeed  a condition  of  their  being.  And  it  is 
wise  to  remember  this  while  following  Poe  in  his 
discussion  of  plot  as  the  more  plainly  geometrical 
element  of  construction.  He  contrasts  it  with 
the  less  obvious  manifestations  of  itself,  as  a man 
might  well  contrast  the  steel  girders  and  ropes 
of  a suspension  bridge,  beautiful  in  their  direct 
explanation  of  themselves,  written  clear  against 
the  sky,  with  the  solid  curves  of  an  older  bridge 
whose  lines  of  stress  and  strain  are  fleshed  in 
stone,  and  overgrown  with  moss  and  fern. 

W e must  think  of  this  when  he  says : 

166 


ANALYSIS 


‘‘  Plot,  however,  is  at  best  an  artificial  effect, 
requiring,  like  music,  not  only  a natural  bias,  but 
long  cultivation  of  taste  for  its  full  appreciation  ; 
. . . the  absence  of  plot  can  never  be  critically 
regarded  as  a defect ; although  its  judicious  use, 
in  all  cases  aiding  and  in  no  case  injuring  other 
effects,  must  be  regarded  as  of  a very  high  order 
of  merit.” 

Forgetting  it,  this  paragraph  would  be  rubbish. 
Remembering  it,  we  see  that  he  points  out  that 
a delight  in  Bach  is  less  facile  than  a delight  in 
Wagner,  and  that  in  all  cases  construction  is  vain 
without  an  end.  The  bridge,  iron  or  stone,  must 
cross  a river.  The  work  of  art  must  begin  with 
an  inspiration. 


167 


V 


METAPHYSICS 


. 1 


METAPHYSICS 


“ METAPHYSICS,”  I learn  from  a respectable 
dictionary,  are  ‘‘that  science  which  seeks  to 
trace  the  branches  of  human  knowledge  to  their 
first  principles  in  the  constitution  of  our  nature, 
or  to  find  what  is  the  nature  of  the  human 
mind  and  its  relation  to  fFe  external  world  ; the 
science  that  seeks  to  know  the  ultimate  grounds 
of  being  or  what  it  is  that  really  exists,  em- 
bracing both  psychology  and  ontology.”  Now 
psychology  is  the  science  of  the  soul  and  ontology 
that  of  being,  and  these  were  Poe’s  preoccupa- 
tions rather  than  the  more  easily  legible  sciences 
of  manners  and  appearances.  1 can  fairly  give 
this  title  to  a chapter  on  the  character  of  his 
researches  and  in  particular  on  his  book  Eureka 
and  a few  of  the  dialogues.  Monos  and  Una^ 
Eiros  and  Charmion,  and  The  Power  of  Words, 
in  which  these  researches  bear  aesthetic  fruit. 

We  must  beware  lest  in  reading  these  things 
we  forget,  as  he  found  it  too  easy  to  forget  him- 
self, the  character  of  the  man  who  wrote  them. 
We  must  not  mistake  him,  as  he  sometimes 

171 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

mistook  himself,  for  a logician  or  a natural 
philosopher.  Poe  was  a man  for  whom  abstract 
ideas  very  readily  disintegrated  into  impressions. 
He  was  at  times  an  able  acrobat  on  the  trapezes 
and  ladders  of  reasoning,  but  he  was  not  a man 
for  whom  abstract  reasoning  could  itself  take  on 
an  eesthetic  quality,  as  with  Schopenhauer  or 
Benedetto  Croce,  whose  Theory  of  Esthetic 
is  itself  a beautiful  work.  This  does  not  con- 
tradict what  was  said  in  the  last  chapter.  In 
the  analytical  tales  he  is  finding  beauty  not  in 
reasoning  but  in  the  reasoning  mood.  I pointed 
out  there  that  analysis  was  the  faculty  in  Poe 
which  most  readily  obscured  his  possession  of 
others.  He  seems  almost  to  leave  the  bulk  of 
himself  behind  when  he  comes  to  argue,  and, 
consequently,  his  arguments,  forgiven  for  their 
contexts,  are  always  disappointing.  This  may 
seem  ungracious  speech  of  a man  whose  work  is 
so  fruitful  in  the  minds  of  other  men,  whose  work 
owes  much  of  its  importance  to  the  ideas  that 
underlie  it.  But  we  must  remember  that  the 
ideas  that  have  altered  the  attitude  of  artists  of 
their  art  were  more  properly  close  observations 
on  the  nature  and  end  of  that  art,  due  less  to 
abstract  reasoning  than  to  a vivid  and  concrete 
perception  of  particular  things.  They  are  the 
observations  of  a man,  himself  an  artist,  made  in 
those  moments  when,  after  close  business  upon 

172 


METAPHYSICS 


his  table,  he  lifts  his  head  to  look  out  at  the 
stars  in  sudden  enlightenment  about  what  he 
has  actually  been  doing.  They  are  different  in 
origin  and  kind  from  his  reasonings  on  the  cosmos 
engendered  by  reading  Herschel  on  astronomy. 

In  Poe’s  mind,  I repeat,  an  abstract  idea  very 
readily  disintegrated  into  impressions.  It  would, 
perhaps,  be  more  exact  to  say  that  an  abstract 
idea  very  readily  set  a direction  to  loose  impres- 
sions already  floating  there,  and  so  gave  them 
the  vitality  that  made  them  expressive.  Poe 
leaps  boldly  from  a scientific  to  a spiritual  truth, 
often,  with  sublime  carelessness,  kicking  aside 
the  ladders  of  reason  as  he  flies  by  a swifter  path. 
There  is  an  excellent  example  in  the  conclusion 
of  The  Power  of  Words : 

‘‘  Agathos.  I have  spoken  to  you,  Oinos,  as 
to  a child  of  the  fair  Earth  which  lately  perished, 
of  impulses  upon  the  atmosphere  of  the  Earth. 

‘‘OiNos.  You  did. 

Agathos.  And  while  I thus  spoke,  did  there 
not  cross  your  mind  some  thought  of  the  physical 
power  of  words  ? Is  not  every  word  an  impulse 
on  the  air  ? 

OiNOS.  But  why,  Agathos,  do  you  weep — 
and  why,  oh,  why  do  your  wings  droop  as  we  hover 
above  this  fair  star,  which  is  the  greenest  and  yet 
most  terrible  of  all  we  have  encountered  in  our 
flight  ? Its  brilliant  flowers  look  like  a fairy 
dream,  but  its  fierce  volcanoes  like  the  passions 
of  a turbulent  heart. 


173 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Agathos.  They  are  ! They  are  ! This  wild 
star — it  is  now  three  centuries  since,  with  clasped 
hands,  and  with  streaming  eyes,  at  the  feet  of  my 
beloved,  1 spoke  it,  with  a few  passionate 
sentences,  into  birth.  Its  brilliant  flowers  are 
the  dearest  of  all  unfulfilled  dreams,  and  its 
raging  volcanoes  are  the  passions  of  the  most 
turbulent  and  unhallowed  of  hearts.” 

The  abstract  idea  that  a spoken  sound 
communicates  a deathless  vibration  to  the  atmo- 
sphere is  here  cast  suddenly  aside  for  the  bolder 
assumption  that  these  vibrations  are  creative  of 
something  correspondent  to  the  meaning  of  the 
sound,  an  assumption  that  no  reasoning  could 
uphold.  And  yet,  as  we  read  that  final  paragraph 
we  feel  that  it  is  true,  as  true  as  “ Cinderella,”  or 
the  story  of  the  mermaid  who  danced  on  knife- 
blades  and  was  turned  into  the  foam  of  the  sea. 
The  truth  of  reason  has  been  abandoned  for  the 
more  luminous  truth  of  poetry. 

In  plunging  into  the  scientific  speculation  of 
Eureka,  Poe  provides  us  with  the  spectacle  of 
a man,  accustomed  to  autocracy  in  his  own 
domain,  flinging  himself  into  another  and  con- 
fidently expecting  from  it  an  equal  pliability  and 
obedience.  We  laugh  at  professors  who  turn 
to  writing  sonnets.  We  cannot  laugh  at  Poe 
because,  on  the  hard  rocks  of  the  professors’  world, 
he  left  so  much  of  the  gold  he  had  brought  with 
him  from  his  own. 


174 


METAPHYSICS 


Sometimes,  usually  after  these  excursions, 
when  it  was  already  too  late,  he  felt  himself  a 
foreigner,  or  at  least  had  some  misgiving  about 
his  right  in  that  world.  And  then  he  would 
think  of  what  he  had  done,  perhaps  remembering 
the  scraps  of  gold,  and  become  confident  again. 
Such  a mixture  of  doubt  and  belief  dictated  the 
preface  to  Eureka  : 

“ To  the  few  who  love  me  and  whom  I love 
— to  those  who  feel  rather  than  to  those  who 
think — to  the  dreamers  and  those  who  put  faith 
in  dreams  as  the  only  realities — I offer  this  book 
of  Truths,  not  in  the  character  of  Truth-Teller, 
but  for  the  Beauty  that  abounds  in  its  Truth, 
constituting  it  true.  To  these  I present  the  com- 
position as  an  Art-Product  alone, — let  us  say  as 
a Romance  ; or,  if  I be  not  urging  too  lofty  a 
claim,  as  a Poem. 

‘‘  JE/iat  I here  propound  is  true : therefore  it 
cannot  die  ; or  if  by  any  means  it  be  now  trodden 
down  so  that  it  die,  it  will  rise  again  to  the  Life 
Everlasting. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  as  a Poem  only  that  I 
wish  this  work  to  be  judged  after  I am  dead.” 

That  little  piece  of  prose  has  always  seemed 
to  me  a very  moving  embodiment  of  a great 
man’s  hesitation.  It  is  hope  almost  throttled  by 
fear  and  for  that  very  reason  raising  its  voice  to 
an  unnatural  pitch.  He  would  have  liked  to 
quote  the  words  of  Kepler  from  the  letter  in  the 

175 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


book  : / can  afford  to  wait  a century  for  readers 

when  God  himself  has  waited  six  thousand  years 
for  an  observer,  I triumph,  I have  stolen  the 
golden  secret  of  the  Egyptians,  I will  indidge  my 
sacred  fury,''  But  he  dared  not  burn  his  boats. 

He  asks  us  to  consider  Eureka  as  a poem 
or  a romance,  a work  of  art  not  science.  It  is 
indeed  a De  Eerum  Natura,  and  a comparison 
with  Lucretius  is  the  readiest  way  to  an  under- 
standing of  Poe’s  failure.  Lucretius,  like  Poe, 
is  full  of  facts  of  science  imperfectly  understood. 
Long  arguments  about  the  void  in  things  tempt 
a modern  thinker  to  regard  the  work  as  vain  that 
is  based  on  such  conceptions.  But  in  Lucretius 
the  spirit  of  the  argument  is  the  same  as  that 
which  gloriously  greets  the  creative  spirit  of  the 
earth : 

iEneadum  genetrix,  hominum  divomque 
voluptas, 

alma  Venus,  cseli  subter  labentia  signa 
quas  mare  navigerum,  quae  terras  frugiferentes 
concelebras,  per  te  quoniam  genus  omne  ani- 
mantum 

concipitur  visitque  exortum  lumina  soils 
te,  dea,  te  fugiunt  venti,  te  nubila  caeli 
adventumque  tuum,  tibi  suavis  dasdala  tellus 
summittit  flores,  tibi  rident  sequora  ponti 
placatumque  nitet  diffuse  lumine  caelum.” 

All  is  of  a piece,  and  the  outworn  science 
retains  its  power  over  us  in  the  veins  of  poetry 

176 


METAPHYSICS 

in  which  it  flows,  the  white  and  scarlet  cor- 
puscles making  blood  between  them.  In  Poe, 
this  is  not  so.  The  reds  and  the  whites  are 
gathered  in  separate  camps,  and  the  whites  have 
an  unfortunate  predominance.  The  two  do  not 
mingle.  The  book  is  at  war  with  itself,  and, 
consequently,  fails  as  a work  of  art.  It  is  not 
to  the  point  to  pick  holes  in  Poe’s  knowledge  of 
science,  or  even  in  the  conduct  of  his  argument, 
though  several  of  his  critics  have  thought  that 
in  so  doing  they  were  exposing  the  weakness 
of  the  book.  Lucretius  is  all  wrong,  but  his 
poem  is  all  right.  Even  if  Poe’s  science  were 
invulnerable,  it  would  still  be  the  Achilles’  heel 
of  his  work,  because  it  is  at  war  with  himself,  at 
war  with  the  poem  he  is  trying  to  write,  and  so 
no  more  than  dead  matter  whose  existence  eats 
like  a canker  into  the  vitality  of  what  is  left. 

But,  in  writing  Eureka  Poe  went  near  the 
making  of  a great  book.  It  was  not  mere 
fanaticism  that  led  Baudelaire  to  translate  it 
entire.  It  is  not  a poem,  because  it  is  a failure 
and  every  poem  is  a success.  But  it  is  a book 
whose  patches  of  vitality  are  luminous  with  their 
special  kind  of  truth,  a lump  of  worthless  rock 
with  glittering  gold  caught  in  its  crevices,  a 
cluster  of  glow-worms  on  a piece  of  barren  land. 
And  these  bright  sparks  must  be  gathered  by 
any  one  who  would  understand  the  path  Poe 

177  M 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


trod  between  earth  and  the  stars.  Moments  of 
reasoning,  and,  far  more  often,  fragments  of 
poetry  that  have  flung  off  reason  to  live  in  their 
own  right,  help  us  to  see,  perhaps  more  elearly 
than  himself,  since  we  are  at  a greater  distance, 
what  this  man  sought,  and  what  was  the  cha- 
racter of  his  search. 

In  the  letter  that  Poe  prefixes  to  his  argument, 
the  letter  written  in  the  year  two  thousand  eight 
hundred  and  forty-eight,  and  cruelly  smudged 
with  some  of  the  worst  of  his  attempted  jokes, 
there  is  the  promise  of  a book  that  would  indeed 
have  been  the  poem  that  Eureka  was  not. 
In  the  prefatory  note,  Poe  had  dedicated  his 
book  to  those  who  feel  rather  than  to  those 
who  think — to  the  dreamers  and  those  who  put 
faith  in  dreams  as  the  only  realities.”  Here  he 
exclaims  against  the  limitation  of  truth  to  what 
is  arrived  at  by  reasoning,  or  to  collections  of 
fact,  the  impalpable,  titillating  Scotch  snuff  of 
detail  No  man,”  says  the  author  of  the  letter, 
‘‘  dared  to  utter  a truth  for  which  he  felt  himself 
indebted  to  his  soul  alone.”  He  points  out,  on 
the  one  hand,  that  reasoning  is  founded  upon 
axioms  and  so  upon  nothing,  and,  on  the  other, 
that  the  ‘‘  diggers  and  pedlars  of  minute  facts  ” 
substitute  natural  science  for  metaphysics.  He 
calls  the  philosophers  to  task  for  their  “ pompous 
and  infatuate  proscription  of  all  other  roads  to 

178 


METAPHYSICS 


Truth  than  the  two  narrow  and  crooked  paths — 
the  one  of  creeping  and  the  other  of  crawling — 
to  which,  in  their  ignorant  perversity,  they  have 
dared  to  confine  the  Soul — the  Soul  which  loves 
nothing  so  well  as  to  soar  in  those  regions  ot 
illimitable  intuition  which  are  utterly  incognisant 
of  ‘ path  ’ ! ” Then,  like  a flash,  follows  this 
sentence  : “ Is  it  not  wonderful  that  they  should 
have  failed  to  deduce  from  the  works  of  God  the 
vitally  momentous  consideration  that  a perfect 
consistency  can  he  nothing  but  an  absolute  truth?'' 
Is  not  that  the  secret  of  art,  the  explanation  of 
its  value  to  mankind,  far  above  that  of  the  things, 
colours  and  lines  that  it  may  happen  to  represent 
or  use  ? Is  not  that  the  idea  whose  amplifica- 
tion is  Benedetto  Croce’s  theory  of  aesthetic  ? 
Would  not  Blake  in  reading  it  have  heard  that 
the  sons  of  the  morning  were  shouting  in  heaven  ? 

That  it  was  not  an  accident,  whose  worth  and 
meaning  Poe  had  not  recognised,  is  proved  by 
this  other  paragraph  from  near  the  end  of  the 
book : 

. And,  in  fact,  the  sense  of  the  symmetrical 
is  an  instinct  which  may  be  depended  upon  with 
an  almost  blindfold  reliance.  It  is  the  poetical 
essence  of  the  Universe — of  the  Universe  which, 
in  the  supremeness  of  its  symmetry,  is  but  the 
most  sublime  of  poems.  Now,  symmetry  and 
consistency  are  convertible  terms  ; thus  Poetry 

179 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


and  Truth  are  one.  A thing  is  consistent  in  the 
ratio  of  its  truth,  true  in  the  ratio  of  its  con- 
sistency. A perfect  consistency,  I repeat,  can  be 
nothing  but  an  absolute  truth  W e may  take  it 
for  granted,  then,  that  Man  cannot  long  or  widely 
err,  if  he  suffer  himself  to  be  guided  by  his 
poetical,  which  I have  maintained  to  be  his 
truthful,  in  being  his  symmetrical,  instinct.  He 
must  have  a care,  however,  lest,  in  pursuing  too 
heedlessly  the  superficial  symmetry  of  forms  and 
motions,  he  leave  out  of  sight  the  really  essential 
symmetry  of  the  principles  which  determine  and 
control  them.” 

How  near  in  these  few  sentences,  as  in  a 
hundred  other  places  in  his  work,  Poe  comes  to 
the  enunciation  of  the  truth  that  in  the  absolute 
unity  of  a work  of  art,  a poem,  or  a picture,  is 
an  escape  from  the  general  flux  of  unconscious 
living  into  the  conscious  and  absolute  life  that 
lies  above  it. 

If,  as  he  almost  promised,  he  had  kept  to  this 
path,  or,  rather,  independence  of  path,  towards 
the  truth.  Eureka  might  have  been  a smaller 
and  better  book,  consistent  with  its  author  and 
with  itself,  and  so  really  a poem  that  we  could 
receive  more  graciously  than,  as  I seem  to  be 
doing,  by  putting  one  hand  behind  us  and  only 
timidly  advancing  the  other. 

But  the  bulk  of  Eureka  is  of  a different 
texture,  and,  if  we  are  to  win  any  of  the  riches 

180 


METAPHYSICS 

that  are  hung  haphazard  upon  it,  we  must  under- 
stand why  we  are  not  bound  to  consider  it  the 
most  important,  as  it  is  the  largest,  part  of  the 
book.  It  has  usually  been  so  considered,  and 
Poe  has  suffered  in  the  resulting  interpretation. 
More  than  one  of  his  biographers,  unable  to 
distinguish  dead  from  living  flesh,  has  talked 
about  Poe’s ‘‘materialistic  philosophy,”  and  about 
Eureka  as  the  book  in  which  it  has  been 
imperfectly  expressed.  Nothing  could  be  further 
from  the  truth.  In  every  case  where  Poe’s  nature 
finds  a lyrical  expression,  by  which  alone  such 
a nature  can  be  judged,  his  philosophy  is  of  a 
consistent  colour,  quite  different  from  the  hard, 
sharp  blacks  and  whites  that  a superficial  reading 
of  Eureka,  that  gave  most  prominence  to  the 
unsuccessful  and  inessential  parts,  would  possibly 
suggest. 

We  have  noticed  in  the  last  chapter  the 
exuberance  of  Poe’s  analytical  faculty.  W e saw 
that  he  had  more  of  it  than  was  sufficient  to  the 
artist’s  purposes.  We  have  seen  him  spending  it 
in  solving  cryptograms,  and  in  writing  acrostics. 
Particularly  we  have  seen  him  turn  it  to  beauty 
in  such  tales  as  The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,  and  The  Purloined  Letter,  What 
could  be  a more  natural  misfortune  than  that, 
pleased  with  his  power  of  reasoning  from  data, 
sure  since  arbitrary  and  his  own,  he  should  be 

181 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

over-confident  in  argument  on  data  that  he  had 
at  second  hand,  and  that  he  should  mistake  its 
athletic  exercise  for  something  almost  as  trust- 
worthy as  his  power  of  dreams.  There  comes  to 
many  men  a period  when  reason  seems  in  itself 
so  strange  and  admirable  as  to  usurp  in  them- 
selves the  thrones  of  those  faculties  that,  unlike 
reason,  have  characters  peculiar  to  their  owners 
and  therefore  valuable.  What  happened  to 
Shelley  at  eighteen  happened  to  Poe  at  thirty- 
eight,  unfortunately  synchronising  with  and  con- 
tradicting his  furthest  development,  instead  of 
only  spoiling  youthful  work  that  he  might  have 
been  glad  to  see  forgotten.  It  would  be  possible, 
in  making  a new  mythology  of  the  brain,  to 
picture  Godwin  (not  the  author  of  Caleb 
Williams  but  the  author  of  Political  Justice) 
as  a personification  of  the  hard  and  active  god 
who  makes  the  brain  an  enemy  of  the  heart,  and 
refuses  those  moments  of  armistice  in  which  are 
born  the  children  of  the  beautiful.  In  Eureka 
there  is  a nervous  effort  to  show  that  brain,  going 
by  the  creeping  and  crawling  ways  that  Poe  has 
already  contemned,  reaches  the  same  end  as 
heart  trusting  to  the  poetical  instinct  which 
alone,  as  he  said,  is  indeed  worthy  of  faith.  This 
quarrel  of  purposes  is  the  reason  of  Eurekas 
failure.  I should  like  to  wipe  out  three-quarters 
of  the  book  for  the  sake  of  the  remainder. 

182 


METAPHYSICS 


Poe  believed,  after  reading  various  writers  on 
astronomy  and  the  constitution  of  the  cosmos, 
that  the  Universe  was  made  by  the  flinging  forth 
from  a common  centre  of  innumerable  atoms, 
that,  collecting  towards  individual  centres,  are, 
in  a more  general  movement,  again  converging. 
But  statistical  arguments  in  support  of  this  thesis 
are  unnecessary  for  the  exposition  of  the  comple- 
mentary idea  that  the  soul  of  each  man  is  a frag- 
ment of  the  soul  of  God,  and  that  the  end  of 
things  will  see  the  reabsorption  of  these  million 
wandering  Psyches  into  the  one  soul  to  which 
they  all  belong.  Such  arguments  are  worthless 
in  comparison  with  such  luminous  points  as  this, 
for  example,  written  as  a postscript  to  the  book : 

‘‘  The  pain  of  the  consideration  that  we  shall 
lose  our  individual  identity  ceases  at  once  when 
we  further  reflect  that  the  process,  as  above 
described,  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
absorption  by  each  individual  intelligence  of  all 
other  intelligences  (that  is,  of  the  Universe)  into 
its  own.  That  God  may  be  all  in  all,  each  must 
become  God.” 

Now  that  is  a flne  thought,  and  it  is  not  alone 
in  Eureka,  But  the'  real  value  of  the  book  is 
in  its  unfulfilled  promise  of  inspired  guesswork, 
its  elevation  of  intuition  above  reasoning  as  a 
means  of  truth,  and  its  explanation  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  so  doing  as  a trust  in  the  poetical  or 

183 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


symmetrical  instinct,  which,  as  we  have  already 
suggested,  is  no  other  than  the  feeling  for  the 
beautiful. 

It  is  not  often  that  Poe  pierces  directly 
through  his  statistics.  More  often,  in  the  meta- 
physical dialogues  as  well  as  in  Eureka^  he 
reaches  expression  by  leaving  on  one  side  the  fog 
of  ill-founded  reasoning  from  which 

‘‘  Helpless,  naked,  piping  loud. 

Like  a fiend  hid  in  a cloud,” 

wails  his  dream  of  God  and  Man.  Come  ! we 
will  leave  to  the  left  the  loud  harmony  of  the 
Pleiades,  and  swoop  outward  from  the  throne 
into  the  starry  meadows  beyond  Orion,  where, 
for  pansies  and  violets  and  heart’s-ease,  are  the 
beds  of  the  triplicate  and  triple-tinted  suns.” 
Whenever  he  forgets  to  substantiate  his  imagi- 
nations by  reference  to  works  of  science,  when 
he  keeps  the  promise  of  that  much  post-dated 
letter,  he  writes  again  and  again  pages  of  emo- 
tional self-projection  into  those  states  of  exist- 
ence from  which  no  traveller  has  yet  returned  to 
solve  the  problems  of  metaphysicians. 

These  passages  belong  to  art,  not  reasoning. 
Their  truth  accordingly  is  to  be  judged  by  them- 
selves, and  can  neither  be  confuted  nor  sustained. 
I choose  as  example  a part  of  the  dialogue 
between  Monos  and  Una,  describing  death  and 

184 


METAPHYSICS 


the  conditions  of  thought  and  feeling  that  suc- 
ceed it,  simplifying  sensation  until  it  no  longer 
needs  the  senses,  but  is  become  an  abstract  feel- 
ing of  Time  and  Place  that  fills  the  void  the 
worms  have  slowly  eaten  into  existence.  Monos 
is  speaking : 

“ Words  are  vague  things.  My  condition  did 
not  deprive  me  of  sentience.  It  appeared  to  me 
not  greatly  dissimilar  to  the  extreme  quiescence 
of  him,  who,  having  slumbered  long  and  pro- 
foundly, lying  motionless  and  fully  prostrate  in 
a midsummer  noon,  begins  to  steal  slowly  back 
into  consciousness,  through  the  mere  sufficiency 
of  his  sleep,  and  without  being  awakened  by 
external  disturbances. 

“ I breathed  no  longer.  The  pulses  were  still. 
The  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  Volition  had  not 
departed,  but  was  powerless.  The  senses  were 
unusually  active,  although  eccentrically  so — 
assuming  often  each  other’s  functions  at  ran- 
dom. The  taste  and  the  smell  were  inextricably 
confounded,  and  became  one  sentiment,  abnormal 
and  intense.  The  rose-water  with  which  your 
tenderness  had  moistened  my  lips  to  the  last, 
affected  me  with  sweet  fancies  of  flowers — fan- 
tastic flowers,  far  more  lovely  than  any  of  the 
old  Earth,  but  whose  prototypes  we  have  here 
blooming  around  us.  The  eyelids,  transparent 
and  bloodless,  offered  no  complete  impediment 
to  vision.  As  volition  was  in  abeyance,  the  balls 
could  not  roll  in  their  sockets,  but  all  objects 
within  the  range  of  the  visual  hemisphere  were 

185 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

seen  with  more  or  less  distinctness  : the  rays 
which  fell  upon  the  external  retina,  or  into  the 
corner  of  the  eye,  producing  a more  vivid  effect 
than  those  which  struck  the  front  or  interior  sur- 
face. Yet,  in  the  former  instance,  this  effect 
was  so  far  anomalous  that  I appreciated  it  only 
as  sound — sound  sweet  or  discordant  as  the 
matters  presenting  themselves  at  my  side  were 
light  or  dark  in  shade,  curved  or  angular  in  out- 
line. The  hearing,  at  the  same  time,  although 
excited  in  degree,  was  not  irregular  in  action, 
estimating  real  sounds  with  an  extravagance  of 
precision  not  less  than  of  sensibility.  Touch  had 
undergone  a modification  more  peculiar.  Its 
impressions  were  tardily  received,  but  pertin- 
aciously retained,  and  resulted  always  in  the 
highest  physical  pleasure.  Thus  the  pressure  of 
your  sweet  fingers  upon  my  eyelids,  at  first  only 
recognised  through  vision,  at  length,  long 
after  their  removal,  filled  my  whole  being  with  a 
sensual  delight  immeasurable.  I say  with  a sen- 
sual delight.  All  my  perceptions  were  purely 
sensual.  The  materials  furnished  the  passive  brain 
by  the  senses  were  not  in  the  least  degree 
wrought  into  shape  by  the  deceased  understand- 
ing. Of  pain  there  was  some  little  ; of  pleasure 
there  was  much  ; but  of  moral  pain  or  pleasure 
none  at  all.  Thus  your  wild  sobs  floated  into 
my  ear  with  all  their  mournful  cadences,  and 
were  appreciated  in  their  every  variation  of  sad 
tone  ; but  they  were  soft  musical  sounds  and  no 
more ; they  conveyed  to  the  extinct  reason  no 
intimation  of  the  sorrows  which  gave  them  birth ; 
while  the  large  and  constant  tears  which  fell 

186 


METAPHYSICS 


upon  my  face,  telling  the  bystanders  of  a heart 
which  broke,  thrilled  every  fibre  of  my  frame 
with  ecstasy  alone.  And  this  was  in  truth  the 
Death  of  which  these  bystanders  spoke  rever- 
ently, in  low  whispers — you,  sweet  Una,  gasp- 
ingly, with  loud  cries. 

‘‘  They  attired  me  for  the  coffin — three  or  four 
dark  figures  which  flitted  busily  to  and  fro.  As 
these  crossed  the  direct  line  of  my  vision  they 
affected  me  forms ; but  upon  passing  to  my 
side  their  images  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of 
shrieks,  groans,  and  other  dismal  expressions  of 
terror,  of  horror,  or  of  woe.  You  alone,  habited 
in  a white  robe,  passed  in  all  directions  musically 
about  me. 

“ The  day  waned  ; and,  as  its  light  faded  away, 
I became  possessed  by  a vague  uneasiness,  an 
anxiety  such  as  the  sleeper  feels  when  sad  real 
sounds  fall  continuously  within  his  ear — low  dis- 
tant bell-tones,  solemn,  at  long  but  equal  inter- 
vals, and  commingling  with  melancholy  dreams. 
Night  arrived ; and  with  its  shadows  a heavy 
discomfort.  It  oppressed  my  limbs  with  the 
oppression  of  some  dull  weight,  and  was  pal- 
pable. There  was  also  a moaning  sound,  not 
unlike  the  distant  reverberation  of  surf,  but  more 
continuous,  which,  beginning  with  the  first  twi- 
light, had  grown  in  strength  with  the  darkness. 
Suddenly  lights  were  brought  into  the  room,  and 
this  reverberation  became  forthwith  interrupted 
into  frequent  unequal  bursts  of  the  same  sound, 
but  less  dreary  and  less  distinct.  The  ponderous 
oppression  was  in  a great  measure  relieved  ; and, 
issuing  from  the  flame  of  each  lamp,  for  there 

187 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


were  many,  there  flowed  unbrokenly  into  my 
ears  a strain  of  melodious  monotone.  And  when 
now,  dear  Una,  approaching  the  bed  upon  which 
I lay  outstretched,  you  sat  gently  by  my  side, 
breathing  odour  from  your  sweet  lips,  and  press- 
ing them  upon  my  brow,  there  arose  tremulously 
within  my  bosom,  and  mingling  with  the  merely 
physical  sensations  which  circumstances  had 
called  forth,  a something  akin  to  sentiment 
itself — a feeling  that,  half  appreciating,  half 
responded  to  your  earnest  love  and  sorrow ; but 
this  feeling  took  no  root  in  the  pulseless  heart, 
and  seemed  indeed  rather  a shadow  than  a reality, 
and  faded  quickly  away,  first  into  extreme  qui- 
escence, and  then  into  a purely  sensual  pleasure 
as  before. 

‘‘  And  now,  from  the  wreck  and  chaos  of  the 
usual  senses,  there  appeared  to  have  arisen 
within  me  a sixth,  all  perfect.  In  its  exercise  I 
found  a wild  delight : yet  a delight  still  physical, 
inasmuch  as  the  understanding  had  in  it  no  part. 
Motion  in  the  animal  frame  had  fully  ceased. 
No  muscle  quivered  ; no  nerve  thrilled  ; no  artery 
throbbed.  But  there  seemed  to  have  sprung  up, 
in  the  brain,  that  of  which  no  words  could  convey 
to  the  merely  human  intelligence  even  an  indis- 
tinct conception.  Let  me  term  it  a mental  pen- 
dulous pulsation.  It  was  the  moral  embodiment 
of  man’s  abstract  idea  of  Time,  By  the  absolute 
equalisation  of  this  movement,  or  of  such  as  this, 
had  the  cycles  of  the  firmamental  orbs  them- 
selves been  adjusted.  By  its  aid  I measured  the 
irregularities  of  the  clock  upon  the  mantel,  and 
of  the  watches  of  the  attendants.  Their  tickings 

188 


METAPHYSICS 


came  sonorously  to  my  ears.  The  slightest 
deviations  from  the  true  proportion — and  these 
deviations  were  omniprevalent — affected  me  just 
as  violations  of  abstract  truth  were  wont,  on 
earth,  to  affect  the  moral  sense.  Although  no 
two  of  the  time-pieces  in  the  chamber  struck  the 
individual  seconds  accurately  together,  yet  I had 
no  difficulty  in  holding  steadily  in  mind  the 
tones,  and  the  respective  momentary  errors  of 
each.  And  this — this  keen,  perfect,  self-existing 
sentiment  of  duration — this  sentiment  existing 
(as  man  could  not  possibly  have  conceived  it  to 
exist)  independently  of  any  succession  of  events 
— this  idea — this  sixth  sense,  upspringing  from 
the  ashes  of  the  rest,  was  the  first  obvious  and 
certain  step  of  the  intemporal  soul  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  temporal  Eternity. 

“ It  was  midnight ; and  you  still  sat  by  my  side. 
All  others  had  departed  from  the  chamber  of 
Death.  They  had  deposited  me  in  the  coffin. 
The  lamps  burned  flickeringly ; for  this  I knew 
by  the  tremulousness  of  the  monotonous  strains. 
But,  suddenly  these  strains  diminished  in  dis- 
tinctness and  in  volume.  Finally  they  ceased. 
The  perfume  in  my  nostrils  died  away.  Forms 
affected  my  vision  no  longer.  The  oppression 
of  the  Darkness  uplifted  itself  from  my  bosom. 
A dull  shock  like  that  of  electricity  pervaded 
my  frame,  and  was  followed  by  total  loss  of  the 
idea  of  contact.  All  of  what  man  has  termed 
sense  was  merged  in  the  sole  consciousness  of 
entity,  and  in  the  one  abiding  sentiment  of  dura- 
tion. The  mortal  body  had  been  at  length 
stricken  with  the  hand  of  the  deadly  Decay, 

189 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Yet  had  not  all  of  sentience  departed  ; for  the 
consciousness  and  the  sentiment  remaining  sup- 
plied some  of  its  functions  by  a lethargic  intui- 
tion. I appreciated  the  direful  change  now  in 
operation  upon  the  flesh,  and,  as  the  dreamer  is 
sometimes  aware  of  the  bodily  presence  of  one 
who  leans  over  him,  so,  sweet  Una,  I still  dully 
felt  that  you  sat  by  my  side.  So,  too,  when 
the  noon  of  the  second  day  came,  I was  not 
unconscious  of  those  movements  which  displaced 
you  from  my  side,  which  confined  me  within  the 
coffin,  which  deposited  me  within  the  hearse, 
which  bore  me  to  the  grave,  which  lowered  me 
within  it,  which  heaped  heavily  the  mould  upon 
me,  and  which  thus  left  me,  in  blackness  and 
corruption,  to  my  sad  and  solemn  slumbers  with 
the  worm. 

“ And  here,  in  the  prison-house  which  has 
few  secrets  to  disclose,  there  rolled  away  days 
and  weeks  and  months  ; and  the  soul  watched 
narrowly  each  second  as  it  flew,  and  without 
effort  took  record  of  its  flight — without  effort 
and  without  object. 

“ A year  passed.  The  consciousness  of  being 
had  grown  hourly  more  indistinct,  and  that  of 
mere  locality  had  in  great  measure  usurped  its 
position.  The  idea  of  entity  was  becoming 
merged  in  that  of  place.  The  narrow  space 
immediately  surrounding  what  had  been  the 
body  was  now  growing  to  be  the  body  itself. 
At  length,  as  often  happens  to  the  sleeper  (by 
sleep  and  its  world  alone  is  Death  imaged) — at 
length,  as  sometimes  happened  on  Earth  to  the 
deep  slumberer,  when  some  flitting  light  half 

190 


METAPHYSICS 


startled  him  into  awakening,  yet  left  him  half 
enveloped  in  dreams — so  to  me,  in  the  strict 
embrace  of  the  Shadow,  came  that  light  which 
alone  might  have  had  power  to  startle,  the  light 
of  enduring  Love,  Men  toiled  at  the  grave  in 
which  I lay  darkling.  They  upthrew  the  damp 
earth.  Upon  my  mouldering  bones  there  de- 
scended the  coffin  of  Una. 

And  now  again  all  was  void.  That  nebulous 
light  had  been  extinguished.  That  feeble  thrill 
had  vibrated  itself  into  quiescence.  Many  lustra 
had  supervened.  Dust  had  returned  to  dust. 
The  worm  had  food  no  more.  The  sense  of 
being  had  at  length  utterly  departed,  and  there 
reigned  in  its  stead — instead  of  all  things,  domi- 
nant and  perpetual,  the  autocrats  Place  and 
Time,  For  that  which  was  not,  for  that  which 
had  no  form,  for  that  which  had  no  thought,  for 
that  which  had  no  sentience,  for  that  which  was 
soulless,  yet  of  which  matter  formed  no  portion 
— for  all  this  nothingness,  yet  for  all  this  im- 
mortality, the  grave  was  still  a home,  and  the 
corrosive  hours,  co-mates.” 

In  this  noble  passage  is  no  scientific  truth,  but 
the  truth  of  intuition,  whose  opposite  may  be  no 
less  true  than  itself,  whose  opposite  might,  in- 
deed, be  no  less  truthfully  written  by  the  same 
man  in  a different  mood.  This  is  the  metaphysic 
of  the  poets,  and  the  only  one  that  can  be  the 
body-stuff  of  art.  For  in  such  passages,  and  for 
those  in  which  he  recognises  the  difference  be- 
tween their  truth  and  that  other  truth  that  is 

191 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


sought  by  logic,  between  the  innumerable  facets 
of  absolute  truth,  and  the  variable  truth  that  is 
gleaned  from  facts  whose  absoluteness  we  can 
never  know,  is  Poe  to  be  valued.  The  activity  of 
his  mind  was  its  own  enemy.  It  made  him  pre- 
hensile of  scientific  knowledge,  while  without  the 
power  of  judging  the  rottenness  or  the  strength 
of  its  branches.  It  hampered  him  by  making 
him  weakly  deny  the  principles  he  had  himself 
discovered,  and  seek  to  buttress  his  work  with 
science  and  so  to  twist  it  into  such  a position 
that  it  needed  buttressing.  But,  in  fortunate 
moments  of  inspiration  he  trusted  his  own  wings. 
Popular  scientific  books  are  left  to  the  multitude 
for  whom  they  are  designed.  Intuition  is  free 
and  bold,  trusting  in  its  own  truths.  ‘‘  A perfect 
consistency  is  an  absolute  truth,”  and  is  not 
obscured  by  argument.  The  Nebular  Hypo- 
thesis of  Laplace,  Kepler’s  Law, 

The  Atoms  of  Democritus 

And  Newton’s  Particles  of  Light, 

Are  sands  upon  the  Red  Sea  shore 

Where  Israel’s  tents  do  shine  so  bright.” 


192 


FRAYED  ENDS 


N 


FRAYED  ENDS 

BEFORE  proceeding  to  a summary  that  shall 
attempt  a portraiture  of  Poe’s  mind,  there  are, 
as  is  natural  in  a book  built  on  the  plan  I have 
followed,  a few  frayed  ends  to  be  considered. 

For  example,  I have  not  mentioned  a small 
group  of  his  wTitings  that  are  less  stories  than 
studies,  less  studies  than  dreams  of  ideal  rather 
than  actual  landscapes.  They  do  not  make  up 
any  great  bulk  in  his  work,  but  are  proof  of  a 
delight  in  nature  for  her  own  sake,  a proof  that 
Poe  shares  Julius  Rodman’s  pleasure,  not  only 
in  watching  natural  scenery  but  in  describing  it. 
The  Island  of  the  Fay  holds  an  allegory  and  a 
suggestion  of  nineteenth-century  fairy  tale,  so 
delicate,  so  pretty,  as  to  contrast  strangely  with 
what  we  recognise  as  the  predominant,  and  too 
readily  conclude  were  the  invariable,  colours  of 
Poe’s  imagination.  The  Domain  of  Arnheim 
exalts  landscape  gardening,  which  Poe  more 
than  once  set  among  the  fine  arts.  Landors 
Cottage  is  a sketch  of  what  a poet’s  house 
should  be. 


195 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


I had  planned,  earlier  in  the  book,  to  quote 
two  or  three  of  Poe’s  descriptions  of  rooms,  as 
I believe  that  few  things  are  more  expressive 
than  rooms  of  the  characters  of  their  owners  or 
designers.  I refer  the  reader  to  the  accounts  of 
Poe’s  own  homes  in  the  biographical  chapter, 
and  then,  with  the  licence  given  by  the  title  of 
this,  do  now  what  I had  meant  to  do  before, 
letting  the  first  of  these  imaginary  rooms  be 
the  parlour  of  Ltandors  Cottage, 

“Nothing  could  be  more  rigorously  simple 
than  the  furniture  of  the  parlour.  On  the  floor 
was  an  ingrain  carpet,  of  excellent  texture — a 
white  ground,  spotted  with  small  circular  green 
figures.  At  the  windows  were  curtains  of  snowy 
white  jaconet  muslin : they  were  tolerably  full, 
and  hung  decisively,  perhaps  rather  formally,  in 
sharp  parallel  plaits  to  the  floor.  The  walls  were 
papered  with  a French  paper  of  great  delicacy — 
a silver  ground,  with  a faint  green  cord  running 
zigzag  throughout.  Its  expanse  was  relieved 
merely  by  three  of  Julien’s  exquisite  lithographs 
a trois  crayons,  fastened  to  the  wall  without 
frames.  One  of  these  drawings  was  a scene  of 
Oriental  luxury,  or  rather  voluptuousness ; 
another  was  a ‘ carnival  piece,’  spirited  beyond 
compare ; the  third  was  a Greek  female  head : 
a face  so  divinely  beautiful,  and  yet  of  an  ex- 
pression so  provokingly  indeterminate,  never 
before  arrested  my  attention. 

“ The  more  substantial  furniture  consisted 

196 


FRAYED  ENDS 


of  a round  table,  a few  chairs  (including  a large 
rocking-chair)  and  a sofa,  or  rather  ‘ settee  ’ ; 
its  material  was  plain  maple  painted  a creamy 
white,  slightly  interstriped  with  green — the  seat 
of  cane.  The  chairs  and  table  were  ‘ to  match  ’ ; 
but  the  forms  of  all  had  evidently  been  designed 
by  the  same  brain  which  planned  ‘ the  grounds  ’ ; 
it  is  impossible  to  imagine  anything  more  graceful. 

On  the  table  were  a few  books ; a large, 
square  crystal  bottle  of  some  novel  perfume  ; a 
plain,  ground-glass  astral  (not  solar)  lamp,  with 
an  Italian  shade ; and  a large  vase  of  resplendently- 
blooming  flowers.  Flowers  indeed,  of  gorgeous 
colours  and  delicate  odour,  formed  the  sole  mere 
decoration  of  the  apartment.  The  fireplace  was 
nearly  filled  with  a vase  of  brilliant  geranium. 
On  a triangular  shelf  in  each  angle  of  the  room 
stood  also  a similar  vase,  varied  only  as  to  its 
lovely  contents.  One  or  two  smaller  bouquets 
adorned  the  mantel ; and  late  violets  clustered 
about  the  opened  windows.” 

Beside  that  wholesome  symphony  in  lucid 
colour,  let  me  set  the  room  of  Roderick  Usher : 

“The  room  in  which  I found  myself  was  very 
large  and  lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow, 
and  pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a distance  from  the 
black  oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inaccessible 
from  within.  Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned 
light  made  their  way  through  the  trellised  panes, 
and  served  to  render  sufficiently  distinct  the  more 
prominent  objects  around ; the  eye,  however, 
struggled  in  vain  to  reach  the  remoter  angles  of 

197 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the  vaulted  and 
fretted  ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung  upon  the 
walls.  The  general  furniture  was  profuse,  com- 
fortless, antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books  and 
musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but 
failed  to  give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I felt 
that  I breathed  an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An 
air  of  stern,  deep,  and  irredeemable  gloom  hung 
over  and  pervaded  all.” 

It  is  as  if,  in  different  moods,  we  had  looked 
twice  into  the  chamber  of  Poe’s  soul. 

Then,  too,  I should  perhaps  have  spoken  earlier 
of  Poe’s  plagiarisms,  of  which  much  has  been 
made,  perhaps  because  he  made  so  much  of  other 
people’s.  He  disfigured  his  criticisms  by  continual 
accusations  of  this  kind,  and  too  often  based  his 
impeachments  on  supposed  thefts  from  himself. 
Even  the  authors  he  admired,  like  Hawthorne, 
were  not  free  from  the  supposition  that  they  were 
indebted  to  Poe  for  some  of  their  effects.  It  is 
an  old  proverb  that  sets  a thief  to  catch  a thief, 
and  Poe  was  as  sturdy  a robber  as  Shakespeare. 
Rebukes  of  thievery  come  from  him  with  a bad 
grace,  since,  if  he  coveted  a flower  in  another 
man’s  garden,  he  did  not  hesitate  in  taking  it, 
dyeing  it,  and  planting  it  in  his  own.  But,  in 
spite  of  his  furious  accusations,  his  views  on 
plagiary  were,  at  bottom,  sound.  They  are  best 
summed  up  in  the  last  paragraph  of  his  reply  to 

198 


FRAYED  ENDS 


“ Outis,”  who  had  defended  Longfellow  against 
him,  and  carried  the  war  into  his  own  country. 

It  appears  to  me  that  what  seems  to  be  the 
gross  inconsistency  of  plagiarism  as  perpetrated 
by  a poet,  is  very  easily  thus  resolved : the  poetic 
sentiment  (even  without  reference  to  the  poetic 
power)  implies  a peculiarly,  perhaps,  an  abnor- 
mally, keen  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  with 
a longing  for  its  assimilation,  or  absorption,  into 
the  poetic  identity.  What  the  poet  intensely  ad- 
mires becomes  thus,  in  very  fact,  although  only 
partially,  a portion  of  his  own  intellect.  It  has 
a secondary  origination  within  his  own  soul — an 
origination  altogether  apart,  although  springing 
from  its  primary  origination  from  without.  The 
poet  is  thus  possessed  by  another’s  thought,  and 
cannot  be  said  to  take  of  it  possession.  But,  in 
either  view,  he  thoroughly  feels  it  as  his  own, 
and  this  feeling  is  counteracted  only  by  the 
sensible  presence  of  its  true,  palpable  origin  in 
the  volume  from  which  he  has  derived  it — an 
origin  which,  in  the  long  lapse  of  years,  it  is 
almost  impossible  not  to  forget — for  in  the  mean- 
time the  thought  itself  is  forgotten.  But  the 
frailest  association  will  regenerate  it — it  springs 
up  with  all  the  vigour  of  a new  birth — its  absolute 
originality  is  not  even  a matter  of  suspicion — and 
when  the  poet  has  written  it  and  printed  it,  and 
on  its  account  is  charged  with  plagiarism,  there 
will  be  no  one  in  the  world  more  entirely 
astounded  than  himself.  Now  from  what  I have 
said  it  will  be  evident  that  the  liability  to  acci- 
dents of  this  character  is  in  the  direct  ratio  of 

199 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


the  poetic  sentiment — of  the  susceptibility  to  the 
poetic  impression  ; and  in  fact  all  literary  history 
demonstrates  that,  for  the  most  frequent  and 
palpable  plagiarisms,  we  must  search  the  works 
of  the  most  eminent  poets.” 

Poe’s  politics,  too,  have  so  far  had  no  place  in 
this  book.  They  were  not  elaborate,  or  more 
important  to  him  than  plain  likes  and  dislikes. 
It  was  an  ironic  accident  that  connected  his 
death  with  the  polling-booth.  He  liked  freedom 
and  could  not  recognise  it  under  a democracy. 
He  disliked  mobs  because  they  imply  at  once 
brute  force,  and  a kind  of  imprisonment  of  the 
brains  of  which  they  are  composed.  He  disliked 
the  word  ‘‘progress,”  and  indeed,  most  of  the 
terms  that  are  useful  to  political  speakers.  Poe’s 
political  views  are  very  pleasantly  expressed  in 
Some  Words  with  a Mummy ^ where,  in  a conver- 
sation with  a stripped  and  galvanised  Egyptian 
Count,  the  civilisations  of  Egypt  and  America 
are  compared. 

“We  then  spoke  of  the  great  beauty  and  im- 
portance of  Democracy,  and  were  at  much  trouble 
in  impressing  the  Count  with  a due  sense  of  the 
advantages  we  enjoyed  in  living  where  there  was 
suffrage  ad  libitum^  and  no  king. 

“ He  listened  with  marked  interest,  and  in 
fact,  seemed  not  a little  amused.  When  we  had 
done,  he  said  that  a great  while  ago  there  had 
occurred  something  of  very  similar  sort.  Thirteen 

200 


FRAYED  ENDS 


Egyptian  provinces  determined  all  at  once  to  be 
free,  and  so  set  a magnificent  example  to  the  rest 
of  mankind.  They  assembled  their  wise  men, 
and  concocted  the  most  ingenious  constitution  it 
is  possible  to  conceive.  For  a while  they  managed 
remarkably  well ; only  their  habit  of  bragging 
was  prodigious.  The  thing  ended,  however,  in 
the  consolidation  of  the  thirteen  states,  with  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  others,  in  the  most  odious  and 
insupportable  despotism  that  ever  was  heard  of 
upon  the  face  of  the  Earth. 

I asked  what  was  the  name  of  the  usurping 
tyrant. 

‘‘  As  well  as  the  Count  could  recollect,  it  was 

Mob. 

‘‘Not  knowing  what  to  say  to  this,  I raised 
my  voice,  and  deplored  the  Egyptian  ignorance 
of  steam.” 

And  now,  I think,  we  may  proceed  to  our 
conclusion.  In  examining  severally  the  facets 
of  Poe’s  mind,  and  the  various  activities  that 
represent  them,  an  observation  must  early  have 
suggested  itself,  that  the  ideas  sown  by  these 
activities  carry  us  further  than  Poe  carried  them. 
We  must  also  have  noticed  that  the  tempera- 
mental character  of  Poe’s  writings  is  less  important 
than  their  “ fundamental  brain- work.”  The  Poe 
who  thrills  us  is  less  exciting  than  the  Poe  who 
thinks,  and  even  the  tales  and  poems  are  of  more 
than  their  face-value  on  that  account.  It  seems 

‘201 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


almost  an  accident  that  the  spirit  which  sought 
for  its  exercise  so  clear  and  rarefied  an  atmo- 
sphere, should  have  found  a home  in  that 
nocturnal  grove.  There  is  a quality  in  his 
work  more  universal  than  that  of  strangeness, 
a quality  not  of  temperament  but  of  brain.  His 
temperament  often  found  expression,  his  brain 
was  seldom  able  to  reach  its  far  more  difficult 
goal.  He  left  us  weird  and  shapely  works  of 
art,  but,  in  the  realm  of  thought,  how  much 
more  often  a blaze  on  a tree  trunk  showing  that 
he  had  passed  than  a cleared  path  showing  that 
he  had  passed  with  ease  and  been  able  to  make  a 
road.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  that  these  blazed  tree 
trunks  are  the  achievements  that  should  keep  his 
memory  alive.  He  made  a few  beautiful  things. 
So  have  others.  But  how  few  in  the  history  of 
thought  have  tried  to  teach,  even  in  broken 
speech,  the  secret  of  beautiful  things,  and  the 
way  not  to  their  making  only  but  to  their  under- 
standing. It  was  to  that  end  that  Poe  blazed 
his  trees,  and,  when  we  see  how  often  he  mistook 
the  road,  we  should  remember  in  what  a dense 
forest  he  was  travelling,  and  how  lonely  was  the 
pioneer.  There  is  a most  applicable  saying  in 
Coleridge’s  Table-talk : 

“ To  estimate  a man  like  Vico,  or  any  great 
man  who  has  made  discoveries  and  committed 
errors,  you  ought  to  say  to  yourself,  ‘ He  did  so 

202 


FRAYED  ENDS 


and  so  in  the  year  1720,  a Papist,  at  Naples.’ 
Now,  what  would  he  not  have  done  if  he  had 
lived  now,  and  could  have  availed  himself  of  all 
our  vast  acquisitions  in  physical  science  ? ” 

In  estimating  Poe,  that  is,  in  learning  the  bias 
and  the  personal  background  that  we  must  know 
in  order  truly  to  read  his  thoughts,  we  must  sub- 
stitute for  the  year  1720  the  year  1840,  for 
Papist  what  we  may  imagine  to  have  been  his 
religion,  and  for  Naples  the  peculiar  America  he 
knew.  It  would  be  humiliating  to  ourselves  to 
try  to  rewrite  the  final  sentence,  substituting 
aesthetic  for  physical  science.  We  could  only 
say  that  if  he  lived  to-day  he  would  have  the 
advantage  of  his  own  thought,  matured  and 
clarified  by  seventy  years,  passed  from  America 
to  France,  and  France  to  England.  Baudelaire 
and  Pater  in  different  ways,  knowingly  and 
unknowingly,  as  a disciple  and  in  perfect  inde- 
pendence, do  little  more  than  blaze  again  the 
trees  he  had  already  marked.  He  would  find  in 
the  aesthetic  that  underlies  this  account  of  him 
only  his  own  ideas,  his  own  path,  made  clearer 
perhaps  by  the  felling  of  the  forest  trees,  and  the 
passage  of  others  by  the  gaps  through  which  he 
had  to  fight  his  way. 

His  thinking  and  writing  life  covers  the  years 
between  1828  and  1849.  In  England  the  writers 
of  that  time  were  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Carlyle, 

203 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Lytton,  Disraeli,  Tennyson  and  Elizabeth  Barrett. 
Before  the  end  the  star  of  Robert  Browning  was 
rising  in  cloud.  At  the  beginning  the  power  of 
Byron  had  not  yet  fallen  into  its  period  of  con- 
tempt, the  period  that  follows  dynasties  and 
writers  alike  with  a momentary  oblivion.  Leigh 
Hunt  was  teaching  the  admiration  of  Keats  and 
Shelley.  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  w^re  living. 
Christopher  North  was  rioting  in  Blackwood's. 
Hazlitt  was  writing  his  Life  of  Napoleon. 

In  France  these  twenty  years  cover  the  second 
period  of  the  Romantics.  Lamartine,  Hugo, 
Gautier,  Dumas,  Merimee,  were  writing  the 
books  in  whose  atmosphere  Baudelaire  was 
growing  up  to  recognise  in  Poe  something  more 
than  a chance  literary  affinity,  and  to  do  him 
the  inestimable  service  of  making  him  a French 
author. 

In  America  also  there  was  a group  of  con- 
siderable writers.  And  here  we  come  suddenly 
on  a fact  that  helps  us  to  an  understanding  of 
the  relations  between  Poe  and  his  country.  Poe 
did  not  know  them.  Hawthorne  was  writing 
his  tales,  Emerson  his  essays,  Longfellow  was 
pouring  out  his  prose  poetry.  Lowell  was  be- 
ginning. Of  these  men  Poe  attacked  Long- 
fellow for  plagiarism,  was  on  terms  of  acquaint- 
anceship with  Lowell,  admired  Hawthorne,  and 
was  very  rude  to  Emerson.  I have  read  a polite 

204 


FRAYED  ENDS 


letter  addressed  to  him  by  Hawthorne,  and 
Lowell  corresponded  with  him  on  such  terms 
that  Poe  called  him  ‘‘  My  dear  Mr.  Lowell,”  and 
“ My  dear  Friend,”  and  signed  himself  Most 
cordially  Yours,”  and  Truly  your  friend.”  But 
the  letters  are  concerned  with  business,  with  a 
new  magazine  and  contributions  to  it.  Poe 
flattered  Lowell,  and  Lowell  wrote  a short  life 
of  Poe  full  of  inaccuracies  that,  if  Poe  did  not 
supply,  he  did  not  correct.  But  there  seems  to 
have  been  no  interchange  of  ideas  between  them, 
or  indeed  between  Poe  and  any  other  of  the 
writers  of  his  time.  He  had  avowed  ill- 
feeling  towards  his  brother  authors,”  and  for 
him  Emerson  walked  not  with  that  pure  intel- 
lectual gleam  diffused  about  his  person  like  the 
garment  of  a shining  one,”  but  in  the  sulphurous 
fumes  and  the  black  cloak  of  the  devil  himself. 
Poe  had  no  friend  in  an  artist  of  his  own  strength. 
It  is  doubtful  if  he  could  have  found  one  except 
in  Hawthorne.  He  had  no  friend  in  a thinker 
of  his  own  power.  He  was  extraordinarily 
alone. 

The  reason  for  this  was  manifold.  Poe  was 
without  money,  and  so  had  but  little  time  for 
friendship  unconnected  with  his  newspaper  work, 
and  none  for  those  intellectual  companionships 
that  are  rich  in  proportion  to  what  is  spent  on 
them.  His  principles  were  opposed  to  those  of 

205 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


his  contemporaries.  The  theory  of  art  that  \/as 
his  staff  of  life  held  didacticism  to  be  the  unfor- 
givable sin,  and  these  writers  were  concerned 
with  morality  for  its  own  sake.  With  them, 
except  perhaps  with  Hawthorne,  who  used 
morality  as  an  artistic  background  for  his  work, 
the  making  of  beauty  was  secondary  to  the  more 
obvious  doing  of  good.  Instead  of  making 
possibilities  of  life,  they  were  intent  on  teaching 
how  to  live  well.  They  held  art  to  be  the 
servant  of  the  people,  and  Poe  saw  as  little  of 
the  people  ” as  he  could,  and  disliked  what  he 
saw.  Their  minds  had  all  been  lit  by  flying 
sparks  from  the  French  Revolution,  which  had 
never  flamed  for  Poe.  They  were  democrats  or 
socialists,  in  the  spirit  if  not  in  the  letter.  Poe 
held  that  the  People  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  laws  but  to  obey  them.”  He  could  have  no 
sympathy  with  the  communists  of  Brook  Farm 
or  with  their  friends. 

He  was  left,  then,  to  the  America  that  was 
not  writing  books  of  any  importance.  He  found 
there  some  friendly  journalists,  who  were  sorry 
for  him  because,  as  one  of  them  said,  he  wrote 
with  fastidious  difficulty  and  in  a style  too  much 
above  the  popular  level  to  be  well  paid,”  and 
women  poets,  some  of  whom  were  very  good  to 
him,  some  quarrelled  over  their  letters  and  his, 
and  all  suffered  his  protestations  of  love  and 

206 


FRAYED  ENDS 


poetry.  He  found  also  the  firm  affection  of  his 
own  household,  his  mother-in-law  and  his  wife, 
with  their  pets,  a household  that,  whether  at 
Fordham  or  elsewhere,  was  always  a peaceful 
small  citadel,  held  by  these  three  against  the 
world. 

But  his  loneliness  was  deeper  than  that  of 
lacking  friends  for  his  head.  There  was  a real, 
if  undefined  hostility  between  himself  and  the 
nation  to  which  he  belonged.  And  this  is  harder 
to  explain.  If,  as  M.  Remy  de  Gourmont  thinks, 
he  was  ‘^nstruit  jusqu  a I’erudition,”  it  would  be 
possible  to  suppose  that  his  loneliness  was  that 
of  a scholar  mistrusted  by  the  uneducated.  It 
is  of  moment  to  show  that  it  was  not  so.  His 
learning  was  a heap  of  dross  and  gold,  the  gold 
perhaps  acquired  in  his  school  years,  the  dross 
accumulated  haphazard,  glittering  like  gold,  and 
then  suddenly  betraying  itself  because  he  had 
been  too  hurried  to  follow  the  good  advice  of 
Quarles : 

^‘Use  common-place  books,  or  collections,  as 
indexes  to  light  thee  to  the  authours,  lest  thou  be 
abused  : he  that  takes  learning  upon  trust,  makes 
him  a faire  cup-board  with  another’s  plate.  He 
is  an  ill-advised  purchaser,  whose  title  depends 
more  on  witnesses  than  evidences.” 

Collections  of  literary  gossip,  and  scrap-books 
of  fact  and  quotation  were  treated  by  him  with 

207 


I 


EDGAR  ALLAI^  POE 

as  much  confidence  as  original  works,  and  used 
to  throw  on  his  own  writings  the  light  of  a mid- 
night oil  that  he  had  never  burnt.  He  took  this 
learning  upon  trust  and  it  frequently  exposed 
him.  He  leaned  too^  heavily  on  the  titles  of 
books,  and  so,  because  Ver-Vert  sounded  incom- 
prehensible, Cresset’s  immoral  parrot,  that  died 
of  an  indigestion,  shrieks  its  bad  language  among 
the  books  on  Usher’s  table,  Swedenborg’s  Heaven 
and  Hell  and  Robert  Flud’s  Chiromancy,  in 
company  almost  as  incongruous  with  it  as  that 
of  the  scandalised  nuns  in  the  convent  where  it 
lived. 

Learning  was  not  the  quality  that  kept  him 
separate  from  his  fellows.  It  is  a thin  veil  at 
worst,  that  any  scholar  with  a heart  learns  how 
to  tear  aside.  Poe’s  conflict  with  his  nation  was 
due  to  nothing  that  he  had  acquired,  but  to 
something  in  the  character  of  his  mind.  I think 
it  was  due  to  a rather  scornful  pride.  He  felt 
that  his  intellect  had  been  born  free,  while  those 
about  him  always  had  been,  and  always  would 
be,  slaves.  He  knew  that  free  intellects  are  rare, 
and  he  had  the  pride  of  the  king’s  son  brought 
up  among  the  shepherds  in  the  fairy  tale.  Only, 
while  the  shepherds  were  proud  to  admit  their 
foundling’s  superiority,  Americans,  seeing  that  it 
carried  no  dower,  were  not.  Their  patronage 
increased  his  scorn.  “That  there  were  once 

208 


FRAYED  ENDS 


‘ seven  wise  men,’  ” he  wrote  disdainfully,  is  by 
no  means  an  historical  fact ; and  1 am  rather 
inclined  to  rank  the  idea  among  the  Kabbala.” 
He  could  speculate  without  fear,  his  fellows 
never  without  a thought  of  the  praise  or  the 
blame  that  would  be  given  them  by  the  black- 
robed  ministers  of  public  morality.  Poe  owned 
a higher  censorship.  He  knew  that  he  was 
nearer  than  they,  alike  to  the  earth  and  to  the 
stars,  and  in  all  his  work  there  is  a breath  of 
impatience  with  those  who  are  never  to  under- 
stand it.  He  felt  himself  surrounded  by  fools 
and  deaf  men,  to  whom  he  had  to  shout  to  be 
heard,  and  exaggerate  to  be  even  partially  under- 
stood. He  was  like  a wolf  chained  by  the  leg 
among  a lot  of  domesticated  dogs.*  While 
they  were  busy  with  their  bones,  giving  honour 
to  him  who  had  the  biggest,  Poe  wandered 
in  fancy  on  mountain  peaks  and  in  wooded 
valleys,  seeking  food  of  a more  intangible 
character,  and  honour  that  is  better  worth  the 
winning. 

Both  parties  were  conscious  of  the  distinction 
he  drew.  It  was  perhaps  through  resentment  of 
his  intellectual  pride  that  his  enemies  seized  so 
eagerly  upon  his  drunkenness.  It  was  a weapon 

* There  is  surely  no  need  for  me  to  tell  Americans  that  I 
am  not  attacking  their  country  for  being  like  others.  Perhaps 
there  is  a land  where  the  chained  wolves  outnumber  the 
domesticated  dogs.  But  I do  not  know  it. 

209 


o 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


for  them,  and  they  were  glad  of  it.  For,  as 
Baudelaire  suggests,  it  is  inconceivable  that  all 
American  writers,  except  Poe,  were  angels  of 
sobriety.  Other  men  who  drank  excused  them- 
selves by  their  stupidity,  and  were  forgiven.  But 
Poe  was  so  certain  of  his  height  above  America, 
that,  when  ill-fortune  set  him  below  it,  America 
was  glad  of  the  chance  to  trample  on  him.  It 
is  a common  spectacle.  We  cannot  forget  a 
writer  of  our  own  times  whose  obvious  intellectual 
superiority  brought  upon  his  sins  a popular 
execration  that  would  never  have  been  poured 
on  the  crimes  of  a man  of  popular  stupidity. 
‘‘  Come  down  you  who  sit  upon  Olympus  talking 
with  the  Gods ! You  forget  us,  but  we  re- 
member. You  are  lower  than  us.  Let  us  teach 
you.  Come  down  from  Olympus  ! Let  us  tread 
you  in  the  mud  as  a punishment  for  your  base- 
ness, you  who  dared  to  look  above  it  and  com- 
mune with  the  Gods  we  cannot  see.” 

There  is  no  need  here  to  recapitulate  the  stages 
of  Poe’s  conquest  by  drink.  We  have  followed 
them  in  the  account  of  his  life.  Our  only  concern 
now  is  to  notice  that  his  drunkenness,  such  as 
it  was,  combined  with  his  intellect,  to  separate 
him  from  the  nation  in  whose  country  he 
happened  to  be  born.  He  lived  and  worked  like 
a man  who  knows  that  he  is  ^^hated.  His  mind 
must  indeed  have  been  strong  to  work  even  as 

210 


FRAYED  ENDS 


calmly  as  it  did.  As  he  cut  his  way  through  the 
forest,  to  wake  the  Sleeping  Beauty  with  a kiss, 
he  was  alone  and  worse  than  alone.  Brambles 
coiled  about  him,  holding  him  back,  and  black 
malicious  snakes  hung  from  the  boughs  before 
him,  hissed  in  his  face,  and  fastened  on  his  wrists. 

Yet,  throughout  his  short  life  (he  was  forty 
when  he  died),  the  development  of  his  brain 
went  on  unhindered  by  the  struggle  in  which  he 
was  engaged.  There  is  a unity  in  his  mind, 
whose  principle  is  its  loneliness  and  pugnacity ; 
but  there  is  also  a unity  in  its  growth.  Not  one 
of  Poe’s  faculties  seems  to  have  been  acquired 
before  or  after  any  other.  He  was  born  with 
the  same  number  of  facets  with  which  he  died. 
A broad  glance  at  his  work  almost  suggests  that 
his  exertions  in  all  kinds  were  contemporaneous 
and  parallel.  A closer  examination  makes  it 
clear  that,  though  all  facets  were  there,  yet  the 
light  fell  on  them  in  an  order  that  is  not  without 
interest.  All  might  sparkle  at  any  time,  but  one 
by  one  they  became  steadily  luminous. 

The  order  in  which  the  facets  of  Poe’s  mind 
shone  out  with  particular  luminosity,  bears  a 
close  analogy  to  the  stages,  or  planes  of  thought, 
through  which  passes  the  intellect  of  mankind. 
He  began  by  writing  poetry.  Those  moments 
of  his  life  that  seemed  important  to  him  were 
moments  of  intuition,  when  mood  and  picture 

211 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

fused  into  something  with  the  power  of  creating 
in  other  minds  a similar  experience.  Swiftly, 
during  the  few  years  that  he  spent  chiefly  on  his 
verse,  the  power  of  analysis  increased  in  him, 
modifying  the  work  he  was  to  do,  and  clarify- 
ing what  he  had  already  done,  in  invariably  sue 
cessful  revision.  The  prose  tales  that  followed 
the  poetry  show  both  these  faculties  reacting 
together  with  growing  power.  Analysis  and 
intuition  gave  him  a creative  power,  critical  of 
itself,  and  so  of  others.  In  examining  books 
and  poetry  not  his  own  his  practice  began  to 
systematise  itself  in  theory.  Simultaneously 
with  the  beginning  of  this  theorising  about 
aesthetic,  the  analytical  faculty,  too  energetic 
for  the  work  he  gave  it,  became  unruly  and 
assumed  an  independent  importance,  wasting 
itself  in  the  solving  of  puzzles,  and,  making  use 
of  the  powers  with  which  it  had  grown,  delight- 
ing him  with  trains  of  reasoning,  and  with  tales 
in  which  analysis  was  itself  given  an  aesthetic 
value.  Reason,  spasmodically  at  first,  began  to 
usurp  the  throne  of  art.  Now  it  raised  his  art 
to  its  highest  point,  and,  at  the  next  moment, 
turned  it  to  nothingness  in  forgetting  its  exist- 
ence. Finally,  he  began  to  let  argument  satisfy 
him,  and  let  intuition  atrophy  for  lack  of  use. 
Theory  became  too  powerful  to  allow  itself  the 
suppleness  that  would  have  kept  it  true.  He 

212 


FRAYED  ENDS 

was  obliged  to  turn  for  inspiration  to  old  intui- 
tions, and  stifled  them  beneath  a skill  too  self- 
opinionated  to  be  careful  of  them.  So  far  Poe 
had  gone  when  he  died.  He  had  traversed  all 
the  stages  of  man’s  mind.  Perhaps  he  chose  the 
right  time  for  his  death.  He  had  completed  the 
circle,  like  a civilisation.  Perhaps  nothing  was 
left  for  him  but  the  decay  of  Babylon  or  Greece. 
It  may  have  been  time  for  the  sand  to  rise 
over  the  ruins.  On  the  other  hand,  he  died 
with  a knowledge  of  the  mind’s  biography  that 
could  have  given  his  speculations  a Weight  they 
seldom  possessed.  He  stood  upon  the  mountain 
top,  tired  out  by  his  climb;  but  he  could  see 
below  him  the  pathway  he  had  trod,  and  the 
author  of  Monos  and  Una  and  The  Power  of 
Words  might  have  gone  on  to  write  a series  of 
such  dialogues,  freed  of  the  old  contradictions 
between  their  parts,  dialogues  in  which  reason- 
ing was  indeed  emotional  and  dream  one  in 
texture  with  the  emotional  reasoning.  He 
might  have  reviewed  the  work  of  his  life,  and 
revealed,  seventy  years  ago,  the  theory  of  the 
beautiful  to  which  his  ideas  so  constantly 
approach,  and,  by  seeming  accident  or  the 
blindness  of  hurry,  so  constantly  deny.  If  he 
had  had  but  the  time  to  do  this,  his  work  would 
not  have  been  so  frequently  mispraised.  But 
he  struck  his  blows  as  he  went,  driven  or  fight- 

213 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


ing  ; he  was  never  able  to  return  and  widen  the 
breaches  he  had  made.  Man  after  man  has  felt 
in  reading  single  groups  of  his  work  that  a 
powerful  force  was  passing,  and,  noting  its 
momentary  direction,  remained  ignorant  of  its 
general  trend.  Few  men  have  been  so  irrele- 
vantly praised  and  blamed.  Few  men  have  been 
so  single-minded  in  their  aim.  Poe,  who  could 
have  been  a great  man  of  business,*  a great 
mathematician,  a great  thinker,  a great  artist, 
was  none  of  these  things,  failing  in  life,  but 
seeking,  down  every  turning  that  presented 
itself,  for  that  scrap  of  knowledge  concerning 
beauty  and  the  aesthetic  life  of  man,  which  might 
there  be  possibly  concealed.  His  work,  as  it  is 
left  to  us,  is  made  up  of  observations  and  finds, 
by  the  way,  each  one  modified  by  the  blind 
alley,  high  road,  or  field  path  that  he  happened 
to  be  pursuing  at  the  time.  It  is  embedded  in 
rubbish  and  beautiful  things,  verse  with  the 
jewelled  wings  of  tropic  moths,  hoarse-tliroated 
critical  articles  calming  again  and  again  into 
passages  of  invaluable  wisdom,  dialogues  as 
unforgettable  as  Leopardi’s,  a prose  book  in 
which  argument  and  mysticism  battle  together 
to  a common  end,  tales  that  are  like  Defoe’s, 
tales  that  are  like  Lytton’s,  tales  whose  flavour 

* No  one  can  doubt  this  who  observes  his  management  of 
the  various  magazines  that  passed  under  his  control. 

214 


FRAYED  ENDS 


is  that  of  the  most  delightful  of  Euclid’s  pro- 
positions, and  others  by  whose  colouring,  because 
it  is  easily  recognised,  I suppose  he  will  always 
be  chiefly  remembered.  Beside  the  whole  mass, 
I believe  he  would  have  written,  like  the  painter 
beneath  his  picture,  Hoc  faciebat.”  He  was 
doing  this,  while,  all  the  time,  his  eyes  were 
seeking  in  the  gloom  the  lamp  that,  though  he 
found  it  again  and  again,  he  was  never  able  to 
take  from  its  altar  and  carry  home  with  him  for 
the  enlightenment  of  humanity. 


215 


POSTSCRIPT : THE  FRENCH 
VIEW  OF  POE 


POSTSCRIPT : THE  FRENCH 
VIEW  OF  POE 

IT  has  been  said  that  the  best  of  Poe’s  works 
was  Charles  Baudelaire.  As  in  most  bold 
splashes  of  exaggeration,  there  is  a drop  of 
truth  in  this.  Three  volumes  out  of  the  eight 
that  hold  Baudelaire’s  collected  works  are  filled 
with  translations  from  Poe.  It  is  not  an  in- 
frequent surprise  to  find,  on  turning  Baudelaire’s 
own  opinions  into  English,  that,  with  little  more 
than  accidental  alteration,  they  are  written  in 
Poe’s  words.  Through  those  translations,  and 
the  writings  and  emulations  they  inspired,  Poe 
has  become  a French  writer.  Byron  and  Shake- 
speare are  read  through  glasses  that  look  across 
the  Channel.  Poe  is  read  as  if  he  were  a native. 
His  influence,  as  M.  Pemy  de  Gourmont  points 
out,  is  far  greater  than  that  of  Shelley,  or  even 
of  Rossetti,  whose  Latin  genius  might  have 
expected  a readier  welcome.  Every  year  new 
monographs  and  new  translations  are  published. 
He  is  a popular  ” writer  as  well  as  one  whose 
critical  influence  has  run  through  the  veins  of 

219 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


French  literature.  This  month  * the  Mercure  de 
France^  that  feeds  the  most  intellectual  French 
public,  has  issued  a new  version  of  the  poems. 
Last  month  Poe  was  the  subject  of  the  twenty- 
seventh  number  of  the  Portraits  dliier,  a little 
bi-monthly,  twopenoe-halfpenny,  bookstall  sheet. 
I have  a list  of  the  first  twenty-four  numbers  of 
the  Portraits  d'hier  ; no  Englishman  or  American, 
and  Wagner,  Ibsen,  Goethe  and  Beethoven  alone, 
among  foreigners,  appear  in  it.  Here  is  a list 
of  some  of  Poe’s  translators,  beside  Baudelaire 
and  Mallarme : E.  D.  Forgues,  W.  Hughes, 
E.  Goubert,  H.  Pages,  L.  Lavergnolle,  E.  Hen- 
nequin,  E.  Guillemin,  F.  Rabbe,  C.  Simond, 
G.  Mourey,  J.  H.  Rosny,  C.  Demblon,  V.  Orban. 
There  are  others,  and  a still  larger  list  could  be 
made  of  the  essays  and  books  on  Poe  that  I have 
seen  in  the  Bibliotheque  Natioriale  and  elsewhere, 
some  few  of  which  shall  presently  help  us  in 
drawing  a portrait  of  Poe,  the  French  writer. 

I set  down  these  facts  as  the  readiest  means  of 
making  clear  how  firm  is  Poe’s  position  in  France, 
how  different  from  that  of  any  other  English 
author.  I wished  to  do  this  before  examining  in 
detail  what  this  position  is,  and  how  it  came  to 
be  so  securely  held. 

To  discover  the  original  colours  of  that  vision 
of  Poe  that  caught  French  eyes,  filled  them,  and 
* June  1910. 

220 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


remained  undisturbed  there  until  quite  recent 
years,  we  must  consider  Baudelaire  as  the  shop- 
window  through  which  Frenchmen  saw  Poe  and 
his  works.  We  must  examine  the  character  of 
the  glass  and  allow  for  its  texture  and  formation, 
as  we  should  allow  for  reflection  and  refraction 
in  looking  ourselves  through  a window  at  any 
bright-coloured  object  within.  Baudelaire  him- 
self has  suffered  from  such  a glass.  Prejudice 
and  hearsay  have  made  it  difficult  for  those  who 
read  him,  and  impossible  for  those  who  do  not, 
to  see  in  him  other  than  a sinister,  opium  or 
haschisch-drunken  creature,  the  lover  of  a black 
woman,  a kind  of  elaborate  Villon.  Lee- 
Hamilton’s  excellent  sonnet  represents  the  tra- 
ditional portrait.  I quote  it  here  for  its  own 
sake : 

A Paris  gutter  of  the  good  old  times. 

Black  and  putrescent  in  its  stagnant  bed. 
Save  where  the  shamble  oozings  fringe  it  red. 

Or  scaffold  trickles,  or  nocturnal  crimes. 

It  holds  dropped  gold  ; dead  flowers  from  tropic 
climes  ; 

Gems  true  and  false,  by  midnight  maskers 
shed ; 

Old  pots  of  rouge ; old  broken  phials  that 
spread 

Vague  fumes  of  musk,  with  fumes  of  slums  and 
slimes. 


221 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


‘‘  And  everywhere,  as  glows  the  set  of  day, 
There  floats  upon  the  winding  fetid  mire 
The  gorgeous  iridescence  of  decay : 


A wavy  film  of  colour  gold  and  fire 

Trembles  all  through  it  as  you  pick  your  way. 
And  streaks  of  purple  that  are  straight  from 
Tyre.” 


It  is  a true  enough  picture  of  the  superficial 
appearance  of  a selection  from  Baudelaire’s  poetry, 
made  by  tradition,  which  will  never  forget  that 
Les  Fleurs  du  Mai  cost  their  author  a prosecu- 
tion and  a fine.  It  is  also  a delightful  piece  of 
colour,  but,  if  Baudelaire  had  been  that  and  no 
more,  he  would  not  have  translated  Poe.  Is  there 
anything  in  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  that 
could  move  in  such  a man  “une  commotion 
singuliere”?  I think  not.  We  must  correct 
that  portrait  by  setting  beside  it  a prose  poem 
writted  by  Baudelaire  himself : 

— Qui  aimes-tu  le  mieux,  homme  dnigma- 
tique,  dis  ? ton  pere,  ta  mere,  ta  soeur  ou  ton 
frere  ? 

— Je  n’ai  ni  pere,  ni  mere,  ni  soeur,  ni  frere. 

— Tes  amis  ? 

“ — Vous  vous  servez  la  d’une  parole  dont  le 
sens  m’est  reste  jusqu’a  ce  jour  inconnu. 

— Ta  patrie  ? 

— J’ignore  sous  quelle  latitude  elle  est  situee. 

‘‘  — La  beaute  ? 


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THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 

— Je  Faimerais  volontiers,  deesse  et  immor- 
telle. 

- —L’or  ? 

“ — Je  le  hais  comme  vous  haissez  Dieu. 

‘‘  — Eh ! qu  aimes  tu  done,  extraordinaire 
Stranger  ? 

‘‘  — J’aime  les  nuages  . . . les  nuages  qui 
passent  ...  la  has  ...  les  merveilleux  nuages.” 

Baudelaire  was  more  than  a dead  thing  whose 
decay  was  lit  with  iridescent  colours.  Like  the 
stranger  of  his  poem,  he  loved  ‘‘  the  clouds  . . . 
the  clouds  that  pass  . . . yonder  . . . the  mar- 
vellous clouds,”  and  all  else  that  freed  the 
intellect,  that  dissolved  (impossible  but  in  a 
delightful  hallucination)  the  ties  between  the 
spirit  and  the  earth.  Poe’s  detective  story  begins 
with  a few  paragraphs  of  analysis  that  set  the  key 
for  the  rest,  somewhere  in  the  immaterial  regions 
of  geometry.  Baudelaire’s  admiration  for  Poe 
opens  on  this  note,  repeated  again  and  again. 
He  found  in  Poe,  first  a liberator  of  the  spirit, 
and  then  himself  as  he  thought  he  was  or 
might  be. 

The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  was  adapted 
and  translated  independently  by  two  French 
writers  in  1846.  The  papers  in  which  these 
versions  appeared  fought  over  their  rights,  and 
Baudelaire  learnt  in  this  manner  the  name  of  the 
author  whose  tale  had  so  moved  him.  I give  his 

223 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


own  account  of  what  followed,  from  a letter  to 
Armand  Fraisse: 

Je  puis  vous  marquer  quelque  chose  de  plus 
singulier  et  de  presque  incroyable.  En  1846  ou 
1847,  j’eus  connaissance  de  quelques  fragments 
d’EdgarPoe:  j’eprouvai  une  commotion  singuliere. 
Ses  oeuvres  completes  n’ayant  ete  rassemblees 
qu’apres  sa  mort,  en  une  edition  unique,  j’eus  la 
patience  de  me  lier  avec  des  Americains  vivant  a 
Paris,  pour  leur  emprunter  des  collections  de 
journeaux  qui  avaient  ete  diriges  par  Edgar  Poe. 
Et  alors,  je  trouvai,  croyez  moi  si  vous  voulez, 
des  poemes,  et  des  nouvelles,  dont  j’avais  eu  la 
pensee,  mais  vague  et  confuse,  mal  ordonnee,  et 
que  Poe  avait  su  combiner  et  mener  a la  per- 
fection.” 

M.  Remy  de  Gourmont  thinks  there  is  an 
exaggeration  in  this  statement,  that  Baudelaire 
had  to  seek  Poe’s  work  in  copies  of  American 
papers.  He  points  out  that  Tales  of  the  Grotesque 
and  Arabesque  had  appeared  in  1839.  But  that 
fact,  even  if  Baudelaire  knew  it,  does  not  affect 
the  real  interest  of  the  paragraph.  Baudelaire 
recognised  in  Poe  something  of  his  own  soul, 
and  came  swiftly  to  believe  that  this  American 
writer  held  the  key  to  his  own  development. 
As  time  went  on  and  he  added  tale  by  tale 
to  his  bulk  of  translated  work,  Poe  seems  to 
have  assumed  a still  greater  significance  for  him. 
In  31on  coeur  mis  a nu  he  writes,  ‘‘  De  Maistre 

224 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


et  Edgar  Poe  m ont  appris  a raisonner,”  and 
registers  this  resolve : Faire  tous  les  matins  ma 
priere  a Dieu,  reservoir  de  toute  force  et  de  toute 
justice^  d mon  pere,  d Mariette,  et  d Poe,  comme 
intercesseurs.”  I am  reminded  of  that  fine 
theatrical  creed  of  Bernard  Shaw’s  artist  in  The 
Doctor's  Dilemma, 

The  translation  of  Poe  meant  more  for  Baude- 
laire than  the  rendering  of  a good  foreign  writer 
into  his  own  language.  His  feelings  were  not  far 
different  from  those  of  an  impassioned  believer 
translating  the  New  Testament.  Swinburne’s 
enthusiasm  for  Victor  Hugo  was  not  so 
violent. 

Stephane  Mallarme,  who  did  for  the  poems 
what  Baudelaire  did  for  the  prose,  suggests  that 
Baudelaire  found  the  inspiration  of  Le  Flambeau 
Vivant  in  the  last  lines  of  To  Helen,  I give  the 
French  poem  and  the  lines  from  Poe,  as  an 
example  of  the  kind  of  echoes  that  so  often 
startle  Baudelaire’s  readers. 

‘^ . . . Only  thine  eyes  remained : 

They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone  ; 

Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night. 

They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have) 
since ; 

They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through  the 
years ; 

They  are  my  ministers — yet  I their  slave ; 

Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 

225  p 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


My  duty  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 
And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 

And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire  ; 

They  fill  my  soul  with  beauty  (which  is  hope). 
And  are,  far  up  in  heaven,  the  stars  I kneel  to 
In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 

While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 
I see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 
Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun.” 

Le  Flambeau  Vivant  (No.  xliv.  of  the  Fleurs 
du  Mai), 

“ Ils  marchent  devant  moi,  ces  Yeux  pleins  de 
lumiere, 

Qu’un  Ange  tres-savant  a sans  doute  aimantes ; 
Ils  marchent,  ces  divins  freres  qui  sont  mes 
freres, 

Secouant  dans  mes  yeux  leurs  feux  diamantes. 

“Me  sauvant  de  tout  piege  et  de  tout  peche 
grave, 

Ils  conduisent  mes  pas  dans  la  route  du  Beau ; 
Ils  sont  mes  serviteurs  et  je  suis  leur  esclave ; 
Tout  mon  etre  obeit  a ce  vivant  flambeau. 

“ Charmants  Yeux,  vous  brillez  de  la  clarte 
mystique 

Qu’ont  les  cierges  brulant  en  plein  jour ; le 
soleil 

Rougit,  mais  n eteint  pas  leur  flamme  fantas- 
tique ; 


226 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


Ils  celebrent  la  Mort,  vous  chantez  le  Reveil, 
Vous  marchez  en  chantant  le  re  veil  de  mon  ame, 
Astres  dont  nul  soleil  ne  peut  fl^trir  la 
flamme ! ” 

Although  that  poem  justly  takes  its  place  in 
Baudelaire’s  original  works,  it  may  let  us  into 
the  secret  of  his  understanding  of  Poe,  of  the 
personal  vision  of  him  that  he  scarcely  tried  to 
impress  upon  the  French  nation.  It  is  the 
intention  of  Poe,  freed  from  preoccupations. 
For  Baudelaire,  Poe  was  the  man  who  refused 
all  but  the  beautiful  in  art,  who  recognised  no 
other  goal  than  beauty.  Beside  this  idea  all 
others  fade  away,  or  are  pushed  out  of  sight 
under  any  of  the  purple  or  rusty  gold  curtains 
that  may  be  hung  about  the  room  or  over  the 
couches  of  aesthetic  contemplation.  But  in  the 
criticisms  that  moulded  the  French  view  of  Poe, 
the  curtains  were  allowed  more  influence  than 
was  their  due.  Poe  was  a lover  of  the  beautiful 
for  its  own  sake,  such  a worshipper  as  Baudelaire 
felt  himself,  but  in  writing  about  him,  in  propa- 
gating an  interest  in  him  in  a country  where  he 
was  not  known,  it  was  tempting  to  make  a pic- 
turesque view  of  his  life,  and  tempting,  too,  to 
overlay  that  reason  for  his  admiration  with  others 
more  likely  to  be  generally  recognised.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  feel  the  eagerness  to  persuade 
in  such  a description  of  Poe’s  excellence  as  this : 

227 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Ce  n’est  pas  par  ses  miracles  materiels,  qui 
pourtant  ont  fait  sa  renommee,  qu’il  lui  sera 
donn^  de  conquerir  Fadmiration  des  gens  qui 
pensent,  c’est  par  son  amour  du  Beau,  par  sa 
connaissance  des  conditions  harmoniques  de  la 
beaute,  par  sa  poesie  profonde  et  plaintive, 
ouvragee  n^anmoins,  transparente  et  correcte 
comme  un  bijou  de  cristal — par  son  admirable 
style,  pur  et  bizarre, — serre  comme  les  mailles 
d une  armure, — complaisant  et  minutieux, — et 
dont  la  plus  l^gere  intention  sert  a pousser 
doucement  le  lecteur  vers  un  but  voulu, — et 
enfin  surtout  par  ce  genie  tout  special,  par  ce 
temperament  unique  qui  lui  a permis  de  peindre 
et  d’expliquer,  dune  maniere  impeccable,  saisis- 
sante,  terrible,  Vexception  dans  Pordre  moral, 
Diderot,  pour  prendre  un  exemple  entre  cent, 
est  un  auteur  sanguin;  Poe  est  F^crivain  des 
nerfs,  et  meme  de  quelque  chose  de  plus — et  le 
meilleur  que  je  connaisse.” 

But  Baudelaire  had  an  almost  equal  admiration 
for  another  man,  a painter,  and  his  picture  of 
Poe  was  tinted  by  his  love  of  Delacroix.  Eugene 
Delacroix  was  the  great  painter  of  the  Romantic 
group,  who  found  in  Dante,  Byron  and  Shake- 
speare, a palette  of  smoking  colours,  the  sul- 
phurous yellows,  stagnant  greens,  and  Tyrian 
purples,  that  Baudelaire  preferred  for  the  paint- 
ing of  his  soul.  His  passion  for  these  two  men 
fused  in  his  mind,  and  when  he  wrote 

‘‘  Comme  notre  Eugene  Delacroix,  qui  a elev^ 
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THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


son  art  a la  hauteur  de  la  grande  podsie,  Edgar 
Poe  aime  a agiter  ses  figures  sur  des  fonds 
violatres  et  verd^atres,  ou  se  rev^ent  la  phosphor- 
escence de  la  pourriture  et  la  senteur  de  Forage  ” 

he  made  it  hard  for  Frenchmen  to  see  as  much 
in  Poe  as  he  saw  himself.  He  must  have  been 
thinking  of  Dante  et  Vergile  conduits  par 
Phlegias,”  with  its  agonised  figures  in  the  gloomy 
sea  and  the  burning  city  in  the  clouds  behind. 
Delacroix’s  painting  makes  the  setting  of  the 
picture  terrible  to  those  who  do  not  know  the 
poem,  while  to  those  who  do,  something,  perhaps 
Dante,  seems  to  have  passed  away.  Poe  suffered 
in  a similar  way.  The  colouring  of  his  tales,  lit 
up  by  this  comparison,  blinded  his  readers,  and 
for  some  time  he  was  read  for  his  colouring 
alone. 

I suppose  the  popular  F rench  idea  of  Poe,  the 
description  of  him  that  would  be  given  by  a 
Frenchman  who  had  not  read  him  to  another 
who  inquired  about  him,  may  be  best  learnt 
from  Larousse^  that  delightful  illustrated  dic- 
tionary that  has  a word  for  everybody,  and  tells 
us  that  Shakespeare  was  “ the  author  of  a great 
number  of  tragedies  and  comedies  regarded  for 
the  most  part  as  masterpieces.”  Larousse 
labels  Poe  as  ecrivain  Americain  d’une  imagina- 
tion der^gl^e,  auteur  des  Histoires  Extraordi- 
naires'"  That  description  too  often  suffices  in 

229 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


England.  It  did  not  long  suffice  the  critical 
mind  in  France. 

Baudelaire  died  in  1867.  In  1875  Stephane 
Mallarme  published  a translation  of  The  Raven, 
and  later  an  almost  complete  version  of  the 
poetical  works  of  Poe.  Though  Baudelaire  pre- 
faced The  Philosophy  of  Composition  with  a 
version  of  The  Raven  he  held  that  a fitting  trans- 
lation of  the  poems  was  impossible.  He  felt,  like 
Shelley,  ‘‘  the  vanity  of  translation ; it  were  as 
wise  to  cast  a violet  into  a crucible  that  you 
might  discover  the  formal  principle  of  its  colour 
and  odour,  as  seek  to  transfuse  from  one  lan- 
guage into  another  the  creations  of  a poet.  The 
plant  must  spring  again  from  its  seed,  or  it  will 
bear  no  flower — and  this  is  the  burthen  of  the 
curse  of  Babel.”  Perhaps,  like  Croce,  he  saw  that 
every  translation  either  diminishes  and  spoils  ; 
or  it  creates  a new  expression,  by  putting  the 
former  back  into  the  crucible  and  mixing  it  with 
other  impressions  belonging  to  the  pretended 
translator.”  * Dans  le  moulage  de  la  prose 
applique  a la  poesie,  il  y a necessairement  une 
aflreuse  imperfection ; mais  le  mal  serait  encore 
plus  grand  dans  une  singerie  rimee.”  Mallarme, 
conscious  of  his  daring,  produced  a version  of 
the  poems  in  a rhythmic  prose  of  whose  beauty 
an  inadequate  example  has  been  given  in  a stanza 

* Theory  of  JEsthetic.  Translated  by  Douglas  Ainslie. 

230 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  FOE 


from  La  Dormouse,  printed  earlier  in  the  book. 
Mallarme’s  translation  contains  the  following 
poems:  Le  Corbeau,  Stances  a Hdene  Helen, 
thy  beauty  is  to  me  ”),  Le  Palais  Hante,  Eulalie, 
Le  Ver  Vainqueur,  Ulalume,  Un  Reve  dans  un 
Reve,  A Quelquun  an  Paradis,  Ballade  de  Noces, 
Lenore,  Annabel  Lee,  La  Doj'meuse,  Les  Cloches, 
Israfel,  Terre  de  Songe,  A Hdene,  Pour  Annie, 
Silence,  La  Valid  dLnquidude,  La  Cite  en  la 
Mer  ; and,  under  the  heading  of  Romances  et 
Vers  d’ Album,”  La  Romance,  Eldorado,  Un 
Reve,  Stances,  Feerie,  Le  Lac,  A la  Riviere, 
Chanson,  a M,L,S.,  A ma  mere,  a F,S,0,,  a F,, 
Sonnet  d la  Science,  Le  Colisee,  A Zante,  From 
the  date  of  this  volume’s  publication  French 
readers  have  been  able  to  obtain  all  the  best  of 
Poe’s  prose  and  verse,  in  their  own  language,  and 
written  by  consummate  artists. 

With  this  mass  of  work  before  them  French 
critics  began  to  see  Poe  with  independent  eyes.  It 
is  possible  to  read  a man  for  a long  time  with 
a preconceived  and  erroneous  idea  of  the  quality 
that  causes  your  admiration.  If  you  have  read 
him  so,  there  grows  up  slowly  a vague  dissatisfac- 
tion with  yourself  and  him.  It  is  the  business  and 
happiness  of  a critic  to  trace  this  dissatisfaction 
to  its  source,  and  so  to  free  other  minds  for  a 
truer  understanding  of  their  enjoyment.  Several 
critics  have  become  dissatisfied  with  the  lack  of 

231 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


proportion  between  the  pleasure  or  intellectual 
excitement  they  have  had  from  Poe,  and  the 
skilful  technique  and  phosphorescent  colouring,  to 
which  they  had  been  accustomed  to  attribute  it. 
New  Poes,  other  masks,  have  been  made,  which, 
taken  with  the  old,  suggest  a closer  approximation 
to  the  truth. 

M.  Camille  Mauclair,  in  one  of  the  essays  in  a 
most  interesting  book,  VArt  en  Silence,^  after 
noting  that  no  one  has  been  more  methodically 
unhappy  than  Poe  (a  very  suggestive  remark), 
discovers  that  Poe  the  thinker  is  more  important 
than  Poe  the  story-teller.  I give  his  ideas  as  they 
are,  not  without  rejoicing  in  the  exaggeration 
that  is  necessary  to  balance  the  older  conception. 
He  writes : 

“ Quand  nous  avons  lu  un  conte  de  Poe,  nous 
n’avons  pas  oublie  Tunivers  visible  pour  errer  un 
instant  au  pays  des  songes  ; nous  avons  tire  un 
nouveau  motif  de  songe  et  de  la  contemplation 
plus  attentive  de  ce  qu’il  y a autour  de  nous. 
Nous  avons  en  quelque  sorte  augmente  notre 
idealisme  par  les  precedes  du  materialisme  lui- 
meme.” 

He  notices  that  Poe,  unlike  other  fantastic 
writers,  does  not  ask  us  to  admire  ingenious 
combinations  of  bizarre  episodes.  L ’imagina- 
tion de  Poe  precede  du  simple  au  profond  et  de 


* Paris,  1901. 

232 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


Tordinaire  a Finquietant.”  I remember,  in 
parenthesis,  Flaubert’s  remark  that  ‘‘fine  sub- 
jects make  mediocre  works,”  and  give  it  a new 
application. 

Finally,  M.  Mauclair  thinks  of  Poe  “ qu’il  fut 
un  esprit  mystique  et  non  critique  ; que  sa  raison 
pure  etait  inversement  proportionelle  a sa  raison 
pratique  ; que  la  solidarite  du  genie  et  du  malheur 
le  constitua  tout  entier ; que  Fart  lui  fut  non 
point  un  but,  mais  un  moyen  temporaire  de  son 
idealisme ; qu’on  doit  avant  tout  le  considerer 
comme  un  philosophe.”  He  suggests  that  Poe 
was  working  towards  the  production  of  a great 
book,  for  which  his  tales  were  only  prolegomena. 
It  is  indeed  possible  that,  if  Poe  had  lived  and 
written  such  a book,  he  would  have  thought  that 
such  had  been  his  intention,  and  wished  others 
to  think  so  too.  But  we  must  remember  that 
Poe  was  not  such  a man  except  at  moments  of 
his  career  ; and,  that,  whatever  he  was,  that  he 
had  always  been.  In  one  mood  he  would  certainly 
have  agreed  with  M.  Mauclair ; in  another,  with 
Baudelaire.  He  would  have  been  grateful  for  M. 
Mauclair ’s  opinion  when  he  was  writing  Eureka. 
He  would  have  buttressed  himself  on  Baudelaire’s 
when,  having  written  it,  he  nervously  added  the 
little  preface  that  asks  for  its  consideration  as  a 
poem. 

In  a book  published  three  years  after  M. 

233 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Mauclair’s  are  a series  of  Marginalia  on  Poe  and 
Baudelaire  that  suggest  yet  another  mask,  and 
another  incarnation.*  M.  Remy  de  Gourmont 
is  one  of  the  subtlest  and  most  liberating  of  the 
school  of  writers  grouped  about  the  Mercure  de 
France,  He  is  a critic  whose  pleasure  it  is  to 
toss  doubts  into  the  air,  catch  them  and  throw 
them  up  again  as  dogmas.  His  books  breathe  an 
exalted  freedom  that  is  only  to  be  won  by  climb- 
ing, and  he  compels  his  readers  to  rise  as  high  as 
himself  by  continually  cutting  the  ground  from 
beneath  their  feet.  I am  thinking  of  the  wonder- 
ful Une  Nuit  au  Luxembourg,,  when  Christ 
walked  in  the  gardens  behind  the  Odeon,  and 
the  winter  night  was  a summer  morning  on  which 
the  young  journalist,  who  had  dared  to  say  ‘‘  My 
friend  ” to  the  luminous  unknown  in  the  Church 
of  Saint- Sulpice,  heard  him  proclaim  the  for- 
gotten truth,  that  men  have  once  called  him 
Apollo,  and  that,  in  one  age,  his  mother  had  been 
Mary,  and,  in  another,  Latona.  It  is  a noble 
book,  an  apotheosis  of  the  critical  spirit,  piercing 
false  skies  one  by  one,  and  carrying  its  reader 
higher  and  higher  on  the  wings  of  a curiously 
disinterested  speculation.  I write  this  as  a de- 
scription of  the  glass  through  which,  in  M.  Remy 
de  Gourmont’s  Marginalia,  we  look  at  Poe. 

Is  it  surprising  that  such  a man  should  find, 

* Remy  de  Gourmont:  Promenades  Litteraires.  Paris,  1904. 

234 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


on  the  one  hand,  that  ‘‘  les  contes  ne  sont  que  la 
moitie  d’Edgar  Poe,  les  poemes  le  contiennent 
tout  entier,”  and,  on  the  other,  que  sa  meilleure 
definition  serait  celle-ci : un  grand  esprit  critique.” 
He  mentions  the  definition  in  my  beloved 
Larousse,  pointing  out  that  it  would  serve  as 
well  for  Baudelaire,  Chateaubriand,  Goethe, 
Dante,  or  Flaubert,  and  continues,  Rien  de 
plus  absurde  que  d’opposer  I’esprit  createur  a 
I’esprit  critique.”  M.  Remy  de  Gourmont  has 
shown  the  absurdity  of  the  supposed  opposition 
in  his  own  books,  that  most  obviously  combine 
the  two.  Poe  had  shown  it  before  him,  and, 
almost  as  Poe  would  have  said  it,  he  adds, 
Sans  la  faculte  critique,  il  n’y  a point  de 
creation  possible ; on  n’a  que  des  poetes  chan- 
teurs,  comme  il  y a des  oiseaux  chanteurs.” 

There  seems  to  be  enough  of  Poe  to  go  round. 
Three  men  as  various  as  Baudelaire,  Mauclair 
and  Gourmont  can  find  in  him  reflections  of 
themselves.  And  beneath  them  a host  of  other 
writers  impotently  repeat  the  old  lessons,  or 
busy  themselves  with  his  life  and  explanations 
of  his  life.  M.  Arv^de  Barine  considers  Poe 
among  his  Poetes  et  Nevroses  in  company  with 

Gerard  de  Nerval  and  Hoffmann.  Barbev 

•/ 

dAurevilly  had  long  before  made  a similar 
comparison.  M.  Alphonse  Seche  writes  an 
account  of  his  life,  including  the  exploded  bubble 

23.5 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


of  his  journey  to  St.  Petersburg.  M.  Paul 
Delaunay,  Interne  des  Hopitaux  de  Paris,  dis- 
cusses him  in  a pamphlet  that  he  shares  with 
Hoffmann,  called  Alcooliques  et  Nevroses.  M. 
Teodor  de  Wyzewa,  after  talking  of  ‘^ces  vers, 
les  plus  magnifiques,  a mon  gre,  de  tous  ceux  qui 
existent  dans  la  langue  anglaise,”  defends  his 
character;  a vain  and  empty  task.  M.  Emile 
Lauvriere,  as  a “ These  presentee  pour  le 
Doctorat  a la  Faculte  des  Lettres  de  FUniversite 
de  Paris,”  writes  two  volumes  on  Un  Genie 
3Iorbide,  one  on  the  life  of  Poe,  founded  on 
Woodberry,  and  the  other  a rather  dull  and 
sightless  criticism  on  his  works.  Finally,  M. 
Emile  Hennequin,  as  long  ago  as  1889,  included 
Poe  with  Dickens,  Heine,  Turgenev,  Dostoievski 
and  Tolstoy,  among  his  Eciivains  fra7icises. 

Poe  is  indeed,  far  more  than  Dickens,  an 
ecrivain  francise,”  and  perhaps  this  tumult  of 
criticism,  awakened  by  the  French  writer,  may 
teach  us  to  understand  the  American.  It  should 
at  least  widen  our  conception  of  him,  and  show 
that  he  too  is  among  the  great  men  with  a 
meaning  for  more  than  one  age,  and  for  men  of 
more  than  one  temperament.  It  clears  away 
those  difficulties  of  language  that  stood  between 
himself  and  us,  obscuring  him  in  our  narrow 
eyes,  like  the  provincial  manners  that,  before 
now,  have  often  blinded  Londoners  to  a great 

236 


THE  FRENCH  VIEW  OF  POE 


man’s  worth.  It  destroys  prejudices  and  cleans 
our  spectacles.  And  the  cleaning  of  spectacles 
is  one  of  the  highest  services  that  the  intellect  of 
a man  or  of  a nation  can  give  to  the  intellect  of 
another. 


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